Revival
by elleaeterna
Summary: On the Astronomy Tower, Draco Malfoy accepted Dumbledore's protection, but Hermione doesn't believe him for a second. As the war looms ever closer, Draco is determined to protect his family. But old habits die very hard indeed. HBP-compliant, rated MA for violence and sex.
1. An explanation

A/N: As some of you already know because of the update I posted recently, this fic was a story that I abandoned for more than a year. I've returned to see it through, but not without making the necessary changes to grammar and syntax. I've taken the chapters down and am editing them one by one. Nothing about the plot or storyline will change.

So, for the readers who've already commented, I'm so sorry you have to deal with 31 chapters that you have already read. I'm also going to apologize again for being gone for so damn long and thank everyone for their patience. I'll stick to a regular update schedule if I can, whatever my family and work life will allow.

A common question has been whether the ending is written. The answer is no. I do know the ending and I have a basic sketch of the major events that lead up to it. I don't do outlines, more like bullet points.

Anyway, bro, here's Wonderwall.


	2. Head Boy

Hermione Granger, keeping quite a keen and watchful eye over her very crowded surroundings, leaned as casually as possible against the barrier and made brief eye-contact with Ron before she felt herself pass easily onto the platform. Kingsley Shacklebolt and Nymphadora Tonks had slipped through the barrier first, but if any witches or wizards had remarked on the fact that Harry Potter and his friends were being escorted by Aurors, they didn't show it. Hermione hardly thought that Death Eaters would choose such a populous location for an attack, but the Order was taking no risks and sparing none of its members on duty.

Even Harry, who in the darkest of times would be cheered with the idea of returning to school, was fraught with tension, and Hermione knew why: Hogwarts simply wasn't as safe as it had once been, with or without Dumbledore to protect them, and Harry, in the fashion that only he could achieve, was about to place the weight of that whole-heartedly on his own shoulders. The evidence that the tides were changing was everywhere, wasn't it? If not by the _Prophet_ or otherwise reported in the media, it manifested in the way people simply _looked_ at the Boy Who Lived; their nervous glances, their stage whispers, their complete aversion to anything to do with Harry and, ironically, their morbid obsession with him were all so painfully apparent. They were desperate to believe that Harry was their savior, desperate to live through the gathering war and yet skeptical of everything he claimed.

"Ginny, dear," Molly said bracingly, and it was Hermione's queue to turn away from the people who were steadfastly ignoring them all. Worry lined the aging witch's face even as she tried to smile warmly and, with a soft sigh, she placed both hands affectionately on either side of her only daughter's cheeks. "No dueling this year-"

"Mum -"

"No matter who it is, Ginevra! And do stay out of trouble, for Merlin's _sake."_

"I won't fight anyone who doesn't deserve it," grumbled Ginny, and Ron snorted somewhere off to her left.

Molly appeared to be trying to issue as many warnings to her last two school-aged children as she possibly could, and so Hermione cast around for Harry instead. She finally spotted him deep in conversation with Arthur and Kingsley, probably receiving a less-Maternal version of the same debriefing, and Hermione suddenly felt very alone: it could very well be the last she saw of these people, after all.

Lupin appeared in front of her, then, drowning out the sound of Molly's motherly advice and looking quite as shabby as he ever had in his Muggle clothing. Lupin's arm wound around her shoulder and steered her away from the rest, clearing his throat as he did, and Hermione was confused. Lupin very rarely singled her out to speak privately, but she realized quickly that he was leading her well out of earshot.

"Hermione. I daresay this term will be an eventful one." A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth but his candid, level gaze belied the light-spirited tone.

"As ever, sir," Hermione agreed and wished that, for once, they could indeed have an ordinary school year without the threat of death and destruction looming ever closer.

"As much as I know you're looking forward to your Head Girl duties, Hermione, you mustn't - this is very important - you mustn't let anything distract you from what needs to be done. The war is coming, and there is much more to accomplish if we are to have a hope of winning. Harry will need all the help he can get."

Hermione nodded mutely, wondering why Lupin felt the need to explain this to her. Hadn't she always been there to help, regardless of anything, school work included? Did he really think Harry would be alone when the time came?

"I cannot stress enough, that you must be ever watchful. Constant vigilance, Hermione. Let no one get in the way. No one." Lupin gestured, and Hermione followed his gaze. Together, they watched as the last two of their number passed through the barrier: Mad-Eye Moody and, beside him, Draco Malfoy.

Lupin turned back to her, catching her in a surprise embrace as he whispered urgently into her ear, "I doubt very much that everything is as it seems."

* * *

On the train, Hermione and Ron headed to the Prefects carriage while Harry and Ginny sought out a compartment for their own. Draco had broken apart from the Order as soon as they arrived on the Platform, obviously too embarrassed to be seen by his fellow Slytherins (or anybody else for that matter) in such company. When Narcissa Malfoy had insisted earlier in the morning that she be present to see her son off to school, Mad-Eye Moody had bluntly refused, leaving Draco with no one of his own sort to accompany him. He had brooded the entire way to Kings Cross and was still brooding when Ron and Hermione slid the compartment door closed.

The carriage was boisterous and active with everyone chatting excitedly or else congratulating each other for being made Prefect, but when heads turned and saw the two Gryffindors enter, a notable hush fell over the crowd. One girl leaned in close to another and whispered something Hermione couldn't hear.

Hermione pretended not to notice. "Well, if everyone's here, then…" She cleared her throat. "Er, well, firstly, I've been made Head Girl and…"

She looked across the carriage at Malfoy, who rolled his eyes contemptuously and said nothing.

"And Draco Malfoy's Head Boy," Hermione finished, annoyed.

The announcement was met with a tense, agitated sort of silence that seemed to stretch awkwardly on. Not a person moved or spoke for several moments.

"You?" Romilda Vane finally remarked loudly, and it was enough to ignite a chorus of murmuring throughout the group.

They had expected Hermione Granger, of course, but certainly not Draco Malfoy. Malfoy, who had not shown any obvious signs of dedication to his lessons. Malfoy, who had always seemed more interested in girls than his Prefect duties. Malfoy, who handed out detentions unfairly and had spent more time playing cruel and petty pranks than punishing them.

"That's right," Malfoy confirmed, glaring. "Me. Or didn't you know that I've got the highest marks of any boy in our year?"

Ron scoffed obnoxiously and said, "Highest marks? You haven't got the highest marks, Terry Boot has!"

But Terry Boot looked at the floor and shook his head. "I haven't."

Malfoy turned a bemused gaze to Weasley. "Some people don't have to showcase their intelligence like your little know-it-all, Mudblood girlfriend."

Ron's flushed brilliantly, his ears growing a shade of red that was very unbecoming indeed before he stood and drew his wand. "Watch your mouth, Malfoy, or I'll hex you!"

"Ron, no!" Hermione warned.

But Malfoy didn't appear to be afraid at all. Instead of rising from his seat when Ron did, he only smirked haughtily back.

"Ten points from Gryffindor, for threatening the Head Boy. Now you can explain to your house why term hasn't even started yet and you lot are already negative."

"Oh, shut up. Both of you," Hermione snapped. "In case the two of you forgot, we're supposed to be having a meeting."

"It's an empty threat anyway," Colin Creevey said. "He can't take points before term starts."

"Ron. Sit down," Hermione said calmly, leveling a scathing look at Malfoy, whose unperturbed stare flicked down to her hand as she tugged on the sleeve of Ron's robe. "Sit down, please. He's not worth it."

Ron slid grumpily down into his seat but didn't stop glaring at Malfoy for the rest of the meeting, nor did he put away his wand. Hermione wished Ron wouldn't be so hot-headed (for Malfoy didn't warrant so much energy) but she could hardly expect anything less from a Weasley's temper. The use of that word had never to Hermione's knowledge elicited anything but a violent reaction from one of the Weasley children, but really, all Ron was doing was empowering Malfoy. Enough was quite enough.

The meeting lasted more than half an hour, due in no small part to the trouble it took to get everyone focused again. There were snide remarks from Slytherins that were met with equal force from Gryffindors and a few select Ravenclaws. Malfoy did nothing to intervene. Infuriatingly enough, Draco seemed not to be amused by the exchange but was rather watching the Slytherins closely. Gauging their reactions to him, probably.

Once what little they could settle amongst themselves had been discussed, Hermione closed the meeting before she and Ron stood to leave.

"Granger."

Hermione looked over her shoulder. It was Malfoy, still reclining lazily in his seat. Hermione wondered how he could manage to look so leisurely even while sitting in an upright compartment bench.

"I want a word," he said, his gaze jumping briefly to Ron and back again.

"Well, get on with it then," Ron said. "We haven't got all day, Malfoy."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Oh, pardon me, Weasel, I hadn't realized you were the Head Girl. I do hear that sort of thing is becoming more acceptable in Muggle circles."

Ron's face pulled tight with annoyance, but Hermione gave him a long, pleading look which he seemed to eventually understand because, after a moment of hesitation, he left. Hermione slid the door shut behind him.

Hermione faced Malfoy, arms crossed.

"You're going to want to sit, Granger."

She narrowed her eyes. "I'll stand, thanks."

"Fine," he acquiesced, shrugging. "But don't expect me to catch you when you faint."

Hermione raised a careful brow and said nothing.

"Dumbledore came to tell me that…" He sneered in obvious distaste. "We'll be sharing a common room."

Hermione gave a sharp but genuine laugh. "That's rich. Nice try, Malfoy." She turned to leave, but Malfoy stood, crossed the compartment in one step, and pressed his hand to the compartment door.

"It's not a joke, Granger. He came last night, to…" Draco's eyes darted to the door, as though someone may be listening, and seemed to reconsider. "To you-know-where. He told me himself."

Hermione looked pointedly at his hand, which was far too close to her face, but Malfoy didn't move. She studied his serious eyes, searching for either lies or jest, but he stared defiantly back at her.

She definitely hadn't remembered Dumbledore calling at Grimmauld Place the night before. He hadn't, in fact, been to the Order's headquarters in more than two weeks. Doubt pulled at her mind. Certainly, Dumbledore was within his power to show up in London unbeknownst to her.

"That's preposterous," she said finally. "Never in _Hogwarts, A History_ has it ever mentioned that a Head Boy and Girl share a private common room. I hardly think that Dumbledore would make such an ill-advised decision."

"Forget your stupid books, Granger," Malfoy said unkindly. "Look, I'm just trying to give you a warning, but perhaps I shouldn't have spared you the embarrassment of having a fit in front of Snape, or McGonagall, or whoever it is who leads us to the common room."

"Malfoy, for more than a thousand years, Head Boys and Girls have been in their own house dormitories. Why would Professor Dumbledore change it now?"

He scoffed. "Can you think of no reason? Really, Mudblood, 'the cleverest witch of her age' my arse. You're clearly as thick as your boyfriend."

"Ron is not my boyfriend!" Hermione retorted angrily.

"Funny, that." Malfoy grinned. "I didn't even say Weasley's name."

Hermione felt the blood rush to her cheeks. "Excuse me, Malfoy, but I think I'll leave now."

Malfoy gave her a long look before pushing off the compartment door and taking a step back. His eyes never left her.

She knew it could not be true. It was in no way even remotely logical, and yet something about the conversation struck a discordant note. "Why, Malfoy, after six years of unadulterated hate, are you trying to do me a favor?"

Malfoy curled his lip, as though even the words he was about to speak tasted awful in his mouth. "Surely, after more than two months, you must realize that things are different."

This time it was Hermione who took a step forward, closing the space between them. She lowered her voice and glared up at him.

"Maybe some people think things are different, Malfoy," she said slowly. "Maybe some of the Order think your family has changed. But I don't."

Draco Malfoy raised his chin, regarding her coolly from beneath long lashes. Hermione stepped back, gave him one last scrutinizing look, and then turned to leave.

"See you in the dorm, Granger," he called just as she slid the door shut behind her.


	3. The International Statute of Secrecy

What Draco Malfoy wanted more than anything in the world was to be fucking alone; at the very least, he wanted to be in the presence of someone who actually enjoyed his company, and he certainly wasn't making any progress there.

Pansy Parkinson had said nothing during the Prefect's meeting, and her silence had spoken volumes as to what he would be facing when he met his fellow Slytherins.

Because Pansy knew.

Of course, she knew, because she would have heard it from her father. Every student whose parents were affiliated with the Dark Lord would have heard, would have directives to watch him but not speak with him. Not to associate with him at all. They would scorn him.

It's all just as well, Draco thought dully. They had never really been friends anyway. He had used Crabbe and Goyle for their size and stupidity, had used Pansy for… more primal ends than that. He could do without the lot of them.

Really, he could.

But as he slid open one compartment, he felt the loss acutely when Pansy Parkinson and Theodore Nott met his eyes with threatening glares. The compartment was occupied by only one other person, whose indifference seemed to practically radiate from him; Blaise Zabini sat, arms crossed over his chest, looking quite as calm and collected as he ever did, and Draco could think of only one reason why Zabini didn't seem to share in his housemates' animosity.

Zabini wasn't a Death Eater, had no family members who were, and could likely care less about where Draco Malfoy's loyalties lie.

Draco stepped into the compartment, fixing first Nott and then Pansy with lengthy stares before he sat down.

"You dare -" Pansy hissed, her dark eyes flashing cruelly. "Filthy blood traitor!"

Draco shrugged, trying to seem as nonchalant as he could. He would never let on how badly the insult had stung. A blood traitor was as bad as it could be, far worse than a Mudblood.

He raised a brow, eyes connected full-on with hers. "Careful Pansy," he said. "I could name a fair few ways you're filthier than I am."

If Pansy had flushed at the insinuation, Draco couldn't tell beyond her thick layer of creamy makeup. She straightened, crossing her legs and arms. "That was before," she said loftily. "Before you turned your back on the Dark Lord."

Theodore gave her a withering glance. "Shut up, Parkinson," he snapped.

"Don't tell me you're as scared as he is!" countered Pansy.

Nott turned a set of pale green eyes back toward Draco, who met them and tried to appear unaffected; Nott bared his even teeth but did not speak.

Pansy gave a girlish giggle. "Do you think you're protected, Draco?" she simpered. "Do you think your precious Headmaster will keep you safe? He's angry. Not even Hogwarts is safe for you now."

Theo clicked his tongue, taking Pansy by the wrist before he pulled the girl to her feet. They left the compartment together, Nott leading Pansy along as she shot Draco a last, parting glower.

For a moment, there was silence, and Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling.

"Really done well for yourself this time, haven't you, Malfoy?" came Zabini's voice, more of a statement than a question.

Draco sighed, tipped his head back to rest against the seat, and wondered just why the Order had insisted he return to school in the first place.

And he wondered, not for the first time, if he'd make it out of his seventh year alive.

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At the Slytherin table, Draco sat between Blaise Zabini and Tracey Davis (neither of whom were associated with Death Eaters) and ate the feast in silence. Finally, he could enjoy a meal without the furor of Order members surrounding him, without their comfortable companionship and stupid inside jokes, and without the utter decency of them all clouding the air he was trying to breathe. Being with his own sort, even if none of them were speaking to him or being the least bit friendly, was a relief in its own right - even if the Weasley mother's cooking had been far better than decent. Far better, he dared to venture, than the elves' cooking at Malfoy Manor. Not that he would ever admit that out loud, of course.

To anyone.

Draco studiously ignored the Slytherins' stares as he reached to pour himself a glass of pumpkin juice. When Goyle did manage to catch his eye, Draco only sneered his response, and the oafish boy's gaze drifted down to the Head Boy badge pinned to Draco's robes.'

"Dumbledore give you that badge as a reward for your loyalty, Malfoy?" Goyle jabbed.

"For having the highest marks, actually. Something you'd know nothing about. Although," Draco mocked condescendingly. "I'll admit I'm rather impressed by your ability to put together an entire sentence without grunting."

Beside Draco, Tracey snickered into her beef stew; Goyle's neck was turning a shade pinker and his face seemed to strain with anger, but he did not appear to have a reply.

Across the Great Hall, he could see the Golden bloody Gryffindors having a grand old time. He could see the back of Granger's bushy head next to Weaselbee's, and in front of them, Potter and the Weasely girl were smiling and sitting very close together. From their demeanors, it was quite obvious that Granger had said nothing to them about the shared common room. If she had done, Potter and Weasley would likely be staring hatefully in Draco's direction by now or else protesting the injustice.

Draco snorted softly at that thought. As though it would really be so different than the two of them living in the same dank, dirty house at Grimmauld Place.

Or maybe it would, he reasoned... at Grimmauld Place, they weren't alone.

The chatter in the Great Hall stopped abruptly, and Draco turned to see that Professor Dumbledore had risen from his seat, clapping his hands once together. The food disappeared from their plates, which were now their normal gleaming gold, and the aged wizard cleared his throat.

Draco was sure that he wasn't the only one to notice that the Headmaster's right hand was still black as char. He wondered how far the decay had now traveled; he hadn't wanted to ask when Dumbledore had appeared at Grimmauld Place the night before, and if Draco was honest, he wasn't completely clear on the story behind it anyway. At that thought, Draco shifted his gaze to Potter and watched him for a long moment; in the background, Dumbledore carried on with school announcements. Potter was watching the Headmaster with rapt attention, practically hanging on every word, like the pathetic lapdog he truly was.

"...As many of you will no doubt have read in the Daily Prophet, and which many more of you remember quite clearly, Voldemort's mercenaries penetrated this castle's walls near the end of term last year." He paused. "I wish to assure you that the means by which they skirted our defenses have been mended."

Draco felt a heavy gaze fall across his shoulders and looked back toward the Gryffindor table to see that Potter and the Weasley girl were staring unabashedly at him; Draco stared back. Really, if there was something the two of them needed to say, they'd had all sodding summer to accomplish it. Draco could see no reason why they felt the need to appear so hostile now, not after they had mostly ignored him for the last two months.

"...Nevertheless, I urge each and every one of you to watch very closely for traces of Dark Magic in any of your fellow students and teachers, especially for evidence of the Imperius curse, and I advise you all to exercise good and careful judgment at all times. Voldemort and his followers gain power every day, and while the Ministry of Magic may choose to downplay his growing strength, I feel that to do this would be a terrible injustice to you all."

Professor McGonagall sat to Dumbledore's left, tight-lipped and rigid with her hands folded in front of her. Draco's eyes followed the professors' High Table until they came to rest upon the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, who, to Draco's shock, had his gaze fixed upon the thoroughly unaware Hermione Granger. Severus Snape looked thoughtful as he regarded her, eyebrows furrowed against one another and his pale fingers circling a goblet which he seemed to have forgotten was in his hand.

"And with that being all said, I would finally like to congratulate our new Head Girl, Miss Hermione Granger."

Uproarious yelling rose from the Gryffindor table, and most of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw cheered enthusiastically as well. He couldn't see Granger's shy smile from where he was seated, but he suspected strongly that it would be there… as though she could possibly be that embarrassed as much as she showed off in classes.

"And our new Head Boy, Draco Malfoy."

There was a smattering of polite applause from every table except one.

Almost nobody clapped or cheered for Draco Malfoy at the Slytherin table… and those who did had no idea why their fellows were sitting still and silent in their seats, or why the others were glaring scornfully at the Head Boy as though he had betrayed them all.

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"Come along, Miss Granger," Snape said boredly, approaching the Gryffindors from behind as they stepped through the doors of the Great Hall. Draco followed him, smirking as Granger turned on her heel to acknowledge their Professor; Potter, Weasley and the other red-headed girl turned with her, clearly confused.

But Granger did not look confused at all. She looked panicked.

"No," she whispered incredulously.

It had been barely audible, nothing more than a quiet denial of the truth and, clearly, Granger had not meant for the Defence instructor to hear it - but Draco could see the shape of her mouth as it formed the word and could only grin as he waited for her public reprimand.

"Excuse me, Miss Granger?" Snape said softly. "Are you refusing to comply with a Hogwarts Professor?"

Hermione's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "What? N-no!" she stammered, unable to collect herself. "I was only - I mean, I wasn't -"

"Five points from Gryffindor for insubordination," Snape said simply, and beside Granger, the other three visibly stiffened. "Now, come along."

Professor Snape continued to cross the entrance hall, and as Draco followed, Granger fell into step beside him. He passed her a superior smile as they ascended the steps, to which she responded with an indignant huff.

They were on the seventh floor when Granger finally spoke, her last ditch effort to somehow stop what she knew was happening. "Please, sir. Where are we going?"

Draco heard rather than saw the Snape's annoyance. "To your common room, Miss Granger. Where else would we be going?"

The color drained from her face, and she met Draco's eyes with utter astonishment. "But, sir, the Heads have never before in history shared a private common room!"

Snape stopped and spun around to face them. "Are you quite sure about that?"

Granger seemed to falter, apparently wondering if she'd been wrong, whether Head Boys and Girls had, in fact, been sharing a private common room since Hogwarts was founded a thousand years ago, and whether she'd been naive to think otherwise.

"Well, well, well..." Snape drawled, an unkind smirk pulling languidly across his features. "It would appear that the insufferable know-it-all does not know everything."

He had lingered on the last word, holding Granger's eyes condescendingly for a moment as he turned to face painting in front of him. Before them was a rendering of a witch and wizard arguing vehemently with one another, and all around them, benches filled with more shouting people rose higher and higher in tiers. Draco's eyes came to rest on the table at which the foremost witch and wizard were sitting and saw that, on the parchment between them, a date had been inscribed: 1689.

"The International Statute of Secrecy," said Draco before he could even think about it.

Granger's eyes flew across the painting, found the parchment on which the year was written, and seemed to realize that Draco was right, for she shot him a look of begrudged jealousy.

"Basilisk," Snape said, and the witch and wizard in the painting both turned from their argument, seeming to notice the three of them for the first time. They both shrugged, and then the painting swung forward to reveal a round passageway… nothing at all like the entrance to the Slytherin common room, Draco realized.

"The Headmaster wishes for both of you to report to his office tomorrow, after the last bell and before dinner," Snape informed them, before turning on his heel to continue down the corridor the way they had come.

Draco turned to Granger and, with a dramatic bow, gave her a triumphant grin.

"Ladies first."

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The common room was at the top of a short, spiraling staircase, and was neither large nor small. A couch faced a blazing fireplace, framed by two armchairs on either side of it. A matching set of staircases curved toward each other on the opposite wall, and on the landing where they met were two wooden doors. Presumably, a door to her dormitory and a door to his own. The wall that spanned from the bottom of one staircase to the bottom of the other was a bookshelf, filled to the brim with books of different shapes and sizes, and in front of it, separating the bookshelf and the couch, was a long table for studying.

Interested, Draco approached the bookshelf and was pulling a thick red tome from it when he heard her angry voice behind him.

"Malfoy," growled Granger.

He turned, and then stopped as panic seized his heart - Hermione Granger was looking quite as crazy as he had ever seen her, wand brandished directly at him.

Draco reacted immediately, dropping the tome and quickly drawing his wand before he ducked - just as the yellow light from Granger's hex sailed past him and hit the staircase banister, which burst into flames.


	4. Muggle Dueling

Hermione's narrowed eyes homed in on Malfoy as he ducked below the table, her thin fingers tightening around her wand even as her blood pulsated like wildfire through her veins, even as her pent-up rage brewed uncontrollably in her abdomen.

For she hated, _hated_ Draco Malfoy. She despised him, both for who he was and what he had done, for how he had jeopardized all their lives. She couldn't very well attack him in the middle of the Order's headquarters, but if she so chose to hex him in the privacy of her own common room, well. Who would be any the wiser?

"Reducto! Densaugo!"

The table was blasted out of her path and landed on top of the couch with a heavy _thud._

Malfoy rolled to the side.

"Stupefy!"

Hermione sidestepped his predictable stunner and fired off a stinging hex, which Malfoy parried effectively as he moved toward the fireplace. Hermione opposed him step for step, matching his movements until they were circling the common room.

"Oppugno!"

The books on the topmost shelf sailed toward him -

"Repello!"

\- and then hung suspended in the air, as though confused about what they were supposed to be doing there.

"Oppugno!"

Two of the chairs that had surrounded the table flew aggressively at Malfoy -

"Spongify!"

\- and collided with him, soft and harmless as pillows.

"Granger! What the fuck is your problem?" Malfoy demanded angrily, not appearing to struggle at all as he parried her Jelly-Legs jinx.

 _"Relashio!"_ Hermione felt the blood rush to her cheeks with every hex he dodged, every jinx he so easily countered. "You slimy, awful - you _foul_ \- you… you _poisoned_ Ron! You _Imperio_ Madam Rosmerta, you pass Katie Bell a cursed necklace that nearly _killed_ her, and you try to do Professor Dumbledore, and then you just come to live with the Order, you just _arrive_ and start trying to be a _part_ of things, like it's all _just fine,_ like you haven't got a bloody _Dark Mark_ on your arm! Like you weren't one of _them!"_

Every bitter thought came rushing up and out: every resentment she had harbored against him over the summer as she watched him sulk about at Grimmauld place, as she watched his parents whisper quietly to one another, never quite sure if they were about to be tossed out on the front step, as his entire family slept and ate and breathed under the same roof as Harry and had the _audacity_ to presume to be forgiven after they had failed to bring about his downfall.

On the other side of the room, Malfoy watched her warily, his wand aloft. "Listen, Mudblood," he hissed.

Hermione stiffened. That _word._ It was easy to ignore it on a day when Malfoy was just trying to goad her, it was nothing to pretend like it didn't affect her when uttered by a Death Eater, but just then, when she was ready to wring Malfoy's neck for all he'd done, the word struck at her with an entirely different depth. Her blood boiled.

"Who runs the Order?" Draco asked rhetorically. "Dumbledore, isn't it? He's the one you lot all defer to, he's the one leading the resistance, yea?"

Hermione bristled. "Don't talk to me about Professor Dum -"

"I'm not _finished,_ " he interrupted. " _Dumbledore's_ the one who brought my family to the Order. _He's_ the one who offered me protection. So if you've got a fucking _problem,_ Granger, you can bloody well take it to him, because he trusts me!"

"He's mistaken," Hermione countered cruelly.

 _"Would you rather I have killed him?"_ Malfoy was shouting now. "Is that how you'd have it, Granger? That way you and your sodding friends can fight the rest of the war without my family on your side crowding the airspace? _And_ without Dumbledore, because he'd be _dead?_ Have some fucking perspective."

" _Perspective?"_ Hermione shrilled disbelievingly. "Oh, yes, you're _quite_ right, Malfoy. So please, do give me a broader worldview, and _enlighten_ me as to how the most prejudiced bigot in the school sees fit to give lectures on _perspective!"_

"I reckon the most prejudiced bigot in the school has rather a more reasonable perspective than the Head Girl just now." Draco snorted. "Seeing as she's so busy trying to curse the Head Boy she set the fucking common room on fire and didn't bother to put it right! Aguamenti!"

Malfoy carefully aimed the jet of water away from the books as he assaulted the flame, which had reduced a large portion of the banister to ash in a matter of moments. Hermione felt briefly ashamed. So caught up was she in her rage that she had very nearly destroyed the common room's meager library.

"You put everyone, all of us, in danger!" Hermione accused bitterly. "You let Death Eaters into this school, you compromised the one place where we were supposed to be safe. _You tried to kill Dumbledore!_ "

"But I didn't," Malfoy stated quite calmly. "The time came, and I didn't. So tell me, Granger, since you're such the clever witch, what that means?"

"It means you're just as much the _coward_ as you've always been," she spat disdainfully. "You're a coward who was too afraid to say the curse, and then you slithered under the first rock you could find, and now you and your pathetic excuse for a father -"

"Don't talk about my family, Granger!" he shouted and raised his wand. " _Sectum_ -"

" _Expelliarmus!_ "

Malfoy's wand flew from his hand and sailed into Hermione's, but he recovered and advanced swiftly toward her.

" _Impedimenta_ _!"_ she shrieked, but Malfoy stepped around the couch and out of the way of the spell. He was too quick, and Hermione had scarcely enough time to take a step back before he was on her, grabbing her by the wrist and _twisting._

Hermione gave a cry of pain and tried in vain to wrench her arm free of his grip.

"Drop it!" he ordered, and she did, her wand clattering to the stone floor uselessly as he snatched his own from her other hand. Nearly out of options, Hermione then did the only thing she could think of and swung her left fist up, hitting him square in the jaw.

There was a short grunt and, in the first moment after the blow connected, Malfoy loosened his grasp minutely.

It was enough.

Hermione braced her left hand against Malfoy's shoulder and _shoved,_ giving herself the leverage she needed to pull her wrist away from him. But her force was not enough to move him and she staggered backward. Malfoy followed, catching her by the front of her robes and pulling her upright.

"Get off me!" she yelled.

"Or what?" he roared, and she was aware of the deranged look in his eyes for one short moment before she felt her feet leave the ground. Air expelled harshly from her chest when her back collided with the wall, and there was no time to register the pain that shot through her shoulder blades, for his wand was pressed against her throat. "You leave my parents out of this, Granger. Don't ever, _ever_ talk about my father. _Filthy_ little Mudblood."

Hermione knew she could not swing out at him; with his wand at the base of her neck, she was prone and, since Malfoy was holding her at arm's length, she would not have been able to reach him anyway. She turned up her gaze, meeting his thunderous, storm cloud eyes with fearless resolution.

And Hermione grinned.

"You're still a coward, Malfoy. I know it, you know it, everybody knows it."

Hermione saw a muscle in his jaw twitch. He leaned in close, his nose inches from her own.

"You know _nothing._ You know _nothing_ of how brave I had to be to make the decisions I made. You think because you're a bloody Gryffindor, you're the only one who knows the meaning of courage?"

Malfoy released her abruptly and took several long strides backward, then with a last contemptuous look in her direction, ascended the stairs. He disappeared into one of the doors that stood side by side on the landing and was gone.

Hermione exhaled a long, shuddering breath, allowing her shoulders to relax as she leaned back against the wall. Jesus Christ, what had she done? What was it about _Malfoy_ that elicited such uncontrollable reactions in her? She knew that the tremor in her hands and the loud rush of her heightened heart rate was only adrenaline, but the flashbacks to her third year were very surreal. Hermione could now remember acutely the feeling of finally eliciting a response from _him_ for once, of having something over him that she'd never accomplished before, at least not in the same way. It was petty and trivial and, she knew, out of her character - but Hermione found that she could hardly resist it.

Her eyelids fluttered closed and she focused on breathing steadily until she was calm enough to cross the room and collect her wand from the floor. She set about putting the common room right again, levitating the tables and chairs to their proper places and magicking the books back to onto the shelf; she also repaired the banister, which proved more difficult since it had been mostly burnt to a crisp.

Tomorrow, she would delve into what mysteries and information the library had to offer. Tomorrow, she would permit herself to be distracted by what she had to admit was quite a lovely dorm. But tonight, she needed to do the only logical thing she could think to do.

Hermione needed to talk to Harry.

.

* * *

.

It was a short walk from the Heads' common room to the Fat Lady (as both were on the seventh floor,) but it had taken longer than anticipated to actually get past the portrait because, to her extreme frustration, she did not know the password.

After Hermione spent about twenty minutes pacing back and forth impatiently, the Fat Lady swung forward to reveal Ron, who had evidently been checking every so often to see if she was there.

"Well, we weren't sure if you knew the password or not - it's Hinky Punk, by the way - since you hadn't come up when we did," Ron said reasonably as they climbed through the portrait hole together. "But, blimey, Hermione, you're Head Girl, aren't you? We figured you'd know it for sure."

"Not this year," she mumbled ambiguously.

Hermione could not help but feel relieved when the common room came into view with a brilliant burst of scarlet and gold, and even more so when she spotted Ginny and Harry comfortably sharing a fluffy armchair by the fire. _This_ tower was her home and had been for six years; the other was merely a pathetic excuse for one, imposed upon her by a Headmaster who was obviously more senile than she'd thought.

"Took you long enough," Harry said genially, and Hermione gave a small smile as she fell, exhausted, into the chair which they had saved for her.

Ginny, always quick on the uptake, narrowed her eyes and furrowed her brow. "What's wrong, Hermione?" she asked shrewdly, but Hermione shook her head.

"Later," Hermione muttered, and there was no need for her to clarify any further: they knew that she meant to wait until the rest of the Gryffindors filed off to their dormitories.

In the meantime, they talked about Quidditch, which Hermione understood just fine but rather had to feign interest in, and professors (Trelawney had appeared exceptionally fraudulent with her misty-eyed gazing at dinner; Slughorn seemed perhaps a little drunk,) and Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, which was profiting stupendously despite the dark political setting.

Hermione had even allowed Ron to talk her into a game of Wizard's Chess, which was a welcome distraction. She was losing horribly when the last of the third years finally vanished upstairs.

"Malfoy and I are… sharing a common room," Hermione said unceremoniously as soon as they were alone, compelling her knight forward as she spoke.

"What?" Ron and Ginny exclaimed together.

Ron's rook destroyed her knight and Hermione glanced up.

"That's where Professor Snape took the pair of us to. It isn't far from here. It's on the west side of the castle, seventh floor. Not far from the Ravenclaw tower, actually."

"Since when have the Head Boy and Girl had a dorm of their own?" Ron demanded furiously. "Is that - that's not even - well, it's not appropriate at all, is it?"

"Malfoy tried to warn me about it after the Prefects meeting." She ordered a pawn toward the opposing end, not really caring that it would be vulnerable to one of Ron's own: it wasn't as though Hermione was going to win anyway. She never did. "He said - he said that Dumbledore showed up last night. He said Dumbledore had told Malfoy himself."

"When?" Harry asked sharply, and Hermione knew that she was not the only person who was surprised by the fact that Dumbledore had appeared at Grimmauld Place to talk to Malfoy without any of them having heard about it.

"That's what I thought," she said resignedly.

Predictably, Ron took out her pawn and Hermione sighed, scrubbing her face with her hands.

"But the real question is why Dumbledore's having you two share a private dormitory in the first place," Ron said angrily, his fist clenched. "That's never happened before, ever."

"I've never read anything like that in _Hogwarts, A History_ ," Hermione agreed. "But Professor Snape said something that implied that the Heads have actually had their own quarters all along."

"Well, maybe they have," suggested Ginny with a shrug. "How would any of us know? None of us has ever been Head Girl or Boy."

But Ron shook his head. "No, when Percy was Head Boy, he slept here. He lived here… Hermione, it's your go."

She swept her gaze over the board, unsure of how to move - she hadn't really been paying attention to the game at all. In the end, she moved her bishop to take out Ron's rook, which may not have been the most strategic play... frankly, she was beyond caring.

Harry was staring unseeingly into the fire, his arms wrapped around Ginny's waist, when he said, "Well, I think it's a brilliant idea."

All three of them looked up quite suddenly, Ginny with her mouth slightly open and Ron looking dumbfounded. "How do you reckon Hermione living with a Death Eater for a brilliant idea, mate?" Ron asked.

"Well, it's going to be hard to have a head on him if he's living in the dungeons. This way, we'll know what he's up to. He won't be able to hide anything with Hermione around."

"I dunno, Harry," Ron objected as he moved his knight, apparently in preparation to take the pawn that was just one more move away. "Malfoy's dangerous. No matter what Dumbledore says. He's still a Death Eater."

"Not to mention a right foul git," Hermione grumbled, and her queen charged ahead to take the knight which Ron had compelled forward.

"If Dumbledore's the one who decided to have them share a common room, then he's got his own reasons. He'll have a plan," Harry insisted. "At least we'll know if Malfoy's up to something."

"Harry," Hermione admonished sternly. "You can't spend all year on Malfoy's heels again, trying to figure out what he's up to. You have more important things to worry about. Has Dumbledore talked to you at all about the… you know. The things we're supposed to find?"

Harry shook his head silently and Hermione knew what he was thinking: why hadn't Dumbledore been to see Harry when he called at Grimmauld Place? Surely whatever business he had with Malfoy was not - _could not possibly be_ \- more important than the hunt for the Horcruxes.

"But, come on, Hermione. You can't expect me just to dismiss Malfoy. He's a threat. I'm not going to just forget about what he did because he's in the Order." Harry's voice was becoming notably angrier. "People don't just change overnight."

"Harry, none of us are going to make the mistake of underestimating him again, of course," Hermione tried to assure him. "Not after last year. We should have listened to you and we didn't. But now we know."

Before she had time to register what was happening, Ron had taken her queen. "Check Mate, Hermione," Ron gloated as his queen moved into position, effectively trapping her king into defeat.

"We can't just jump to conclusions, Harry," Ginny said wisely. "As much as we all hate Malfoy, we have to look at the facts for what they are - not our opinions. And one of the facts is that he had a chance to kill Dumbledore and he chose not to. Maybe he's not trustworthy, but he's evidently not a murderer either. _And_ It's not as if the Death Eaters would have him back, is it?"

Hermione winced as Ron's queen maced her king into a pile of white rubble, and then stared thoughtfully at the chessboard.

"No, they would not," Hermione admitted. "But I doubt very much that everything is as it seems."

.

* * *

.

Hermione started awake the next morning to the chiming of her clock. She had been very tired indeed by the time she finally made her way back to the common room and trudged up the staircase. Her bedroom door, though not a portrait, had asked her to present her wand and then politely informed her that, in order to gain access again, all she would have to do was rap twice with it and it would unlock. Hermione supposed this was because of the close proximity of the two bedroom doors - it really wouldn't do to be muttering passwords where others could hear them so clearly.

In her haste to get to bed, Hermione had not observed her new quarters closely. Now that she was awake, she could see that they were not particularly spectacular. It consisted mostly of a full-sized four-poster bed which took up the majority of the room and was absent of the hideous curtains that hung from her bed in the Gryffindor tower. The only other furniture was a tall dresser, a writing desk, and a bedside table. To her relief, she did have a private bathroom, small though it was. Hermione guessed that whichever tower this dorm was in must have been very narrow for everything to be so cramped.

But the little room was not without its charms. The main redeeming quality was a window that spanned at least a quarter of the entire dorm, with a sill that was deep enough to be a perfect spot for reading. The mirror was, of course, enchanted, and the bath was larger than the ones she was used to seeing in her dormitory.

It was all very… quaint. In fact, she might have really been able to get comfortable here if she didn't know that Draco Malfoy was on the other side of the wall.

After Hermione had bathed, she stood in front of the mirror armed with a hairbrush - and sighed.

She had tried literally everything to tame her hair. She'd tried drying charms, she'd tried air-drying, towel drying; she'd tried brushing it before and after, she'd tried brushing it while it was still wet, she'd tried brushing it constantly until it was dry, and not brushing it at all. The only thing that had yielded any kind of result was having Ginny braid it into a plait straight down her back, and that was, unfortunately, quite a lot of work for Ginny.

Hermione pulled her too-voluminous and not-curly-enough hair into a bun and scowled at her reflection, which replied primly, "Have you tried Sleekeazy's, my dear?"

She left without replying.

.

* * *

.

"Look sharp, Mudblood," Malfoy mocked as he descended the stairs. "First day of lessons, lots of showing off to do."

Somehow, he had managed to be leaving for breakfast at exactly the same time as her, which was irritating.

"Oh, had I been insensitive all these years, Malfoy?" she said sweetly. "I shouldn't have made you feel so low about being in second place. I do apologize."

"All that studying did seem to pay off," he conceded falsely. "Pity you can't just do it effortlessly, like a _real_ witch."

She climbed out of the portrait hole. "Pity _you're_ family fell so hard from grace," she said airily as they stepped into the corridor. "Then your father could keep buying your good marks. I wonder how he'll feel when your grades drop and he has no influence to change them."

"I told you not to talk about my family, Granger," he snapped, grabbing her by the shoulder and turning her to face him.

Hermione squared her shoulders. "Well, go on then!" Hermione dared him. "Go on and hex me in the corridors, Malfoy. I'd hate for anyone to accuse you of _not_ _following through_ with your threats."

Malfoy's eyes flashed ominously, looking as though his anger was boiling quickly to the surface. He opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment, a crowd of fifth-year Ravenclaw girls rounded the corner and stopped in their tracks to observe the exchange.

Hermione smiled knowingly and turned pompously on her heel to continue down the corridor.

She didn't need to look back over her shoulder to know that he had to be furious.


	5. The Dark Mark

**Authors Note: Sorry, this chapter isn't as long as I really wanted it to be, but I really needed to clarify some things so that there wouldn't be gaping plot holes. Next chapter will be back to Draco and Hermione.**

Severus Snape arrived at Malfoy Manor at a quarter of midnight, and he could not say that he was particularly surprised to see that Bellatrix Lestrange had met him at the gate. He had known her silhouette from the moment he apparated but held back his hateful grimace as she stepped into his path.

"Severus," she murmured by way of greeting, her voice low and menacing. "The Dark Lord has been awaiting your return."

He did not stop but moved neatly around her; unperturbed, she fell into step beside him as he followed the long pathway up to the manor.

"The Dark Lord is aware that it is difficult for me to be present, given my position at the school, Bella," Severus informed her smoothly.

Bella gave a soft _hmph_ and tossed her long hair over her shoulder. "And the boy?"

"At Hogwarts, as the Dark Lord has expected him to be," Severus responded.

" _Wait,"_ Bellatrix snarled. Severus felt long fingers clutch at his robes to halt him and he turned slowly to meet her deranged eyes. "You failed to fulfill your Vow, Severus. Tell me exactly how it is that you remain alive."

Severus' lip curled. "I vowed to protect Draco from harm, to watch over him as he fulfilled the Dark Lord's wishes, and to carry out the deed myself if it seemed he should fail," he clarified. "Draco forfeited the mission."

Bellatrix stared insolently back.

" _Therefore_ ," he went on. "I was no longer bound to do it myself because Draco was no longer acting on the Dark Lord's orders."

" _Treachery!"_

Severus arched his brow pointedly. "You speak of treachery, and yet here you are confronting me in secret -"

" _You acted against the Dark Lord!"_ Bella accused.

"- because you are hiding evidence of your own treason! Or, are you, in fact, saying that the Dark Lord would forgive you your transgression against him by casting the Bond?"

Severus watched as Bellatrix flashed a full, hideous smile, running her tongue across her top row of grimy teeth. Severus thought back to a time when Bellatrix had been quite beautiful and had to stop himself cringing in disgust. He could not imagine what was going on in her depraved mind. Rather than ponder it, he wheeled around to continue up the path, lest they both be late and suffer the consequences.

"Two more children, Severus," she called after him, and he stopped, trying to repress a visible stiffening in his shoulders. "Two more children have taken the Mark."

He turned partway to face her, observing her maniacal grin, her slowly rotting teeth, her sallow skin and deep-set eyes, and then Severus feigned indifference. "And they have made a wise decision, have they not?"

.

* * *

.

Inside Malfoy Manor, Voldemort and his inner circle were seated around a long, ornate table in an elegant dining hall. But Malfoy Manor, for all its pomp and refinery, was short of the Malfoys themselves.

When Draco had accepted Dumbledore's help, Severus had been the one to warn Narcissa to flee. It had been a narrow ordeal, with only seconds to spare before the woman was killed for her son's betrayal - thankfully, his old friend had managed to escape as if by some divine miracle. Truly, Narcissa Malfoy was lucky to be alive, though Severus suspected that she quite resented being put up in Grimmauld Place rather than living with the opulence to which she was so accustomed. After Narcissa's flight, Malfoy Manor was left to its inhabitants and had since become the headquarters for the Dark Lord's operations, a fact that only served to emphasize the maniac's mounting arrogance: with the Malfoy's loyalties having changed so drastically, there was nothing to prevent the Order from swooping in at any given moment to attack, for the manor's blood wards would always trump whatever protections the Dark Lord chose to affect. The family could never be kept away from its property. The only thing that stopped them were Dumbledore's orders that it was too soon to launch an offensive... and Severus was among the few to know that the reasoning for that had to do with the Dark Lord's Horcruxes.

Striding into the hall, Severus' dared not shift his gaze to either side before he knelt in front of the Dark Lord's place at the head of the table. It was only after Severus' knee had touched the polished wood floor, only after his hair had covered his face for a long moment as he obediently bowed his head, that he was permitted to speak.

"Severus," Voldemort hissed, and his livid red eyes were enthusiastic as he watched his servant rise.

"Welcome. We have been eagerly awaiting you. Tell us, Severus, how the Malfoy family is faring."

Severus took his seat at the table. "Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy are at the Order's Headquarters. They are protected under the Fidelius Charm, and they are not permitted to leave for any reason."

Yaxley spoke from the middle of the table. "My Lord, if I might inquire…"

Voldemort gave Yaxley a long look before nodding his assent.

"Lucius Malfoy has been in Azkaban for a year," stated Yaxley suspiciously. "How has his freedom come to pass?"

Severus answered. "Lucius was released because Dumbledore appealed to Rufus Scrimgeour, claiming that Lucius would be integral in assisting the fight against the Dark Lord... though, I can hardly see the logic, as neither of the Malfoys has stepped an inch outside of the Order's Headquarters. It was not printed in the _Daily Prophet_ for obvious reasons."

"Turncoat!" shrieked Bellatrix. "Filthy blood traitor! He ought to have wasted away in Azkaban and disowned his family rather than renounce the Dark Lord!"

Voldemort gave an ugly grin.

"Relax, Bella." It was an order. "The time is coming soon when all of the Order shall perish. You may kill your dear brother-in-law then, if you are so vehement about his treachery... that is, if you and your husband do not share the same cowardice as the rest of your family."

Bellatrix bowed her head low to the table. "Never, my Lord! They are a disgrace to the name of Black!"

And the Dark Lord's terrifying glance was reprimand enough. Bella shrank back into her chair and was silent.

Voldemort fixed his eyes on Severus again. "And what of Draco Malfoy?"

"Draco has returned to Hogwarts," Severus answered. "Dumbledore has made him Head Boy."

Voldemort laughed heartily; it sounded like glass shattering on pavement. "A reward!"

The Death Eaters jeered sycophantically along with him.

"He is sharing a private dormitory with the Mudblood, Hermione Granger," Severus went on. "The Head Girl."

"Ah, for his protection," Voldemort realized aloud. "The old fool thinks that his isolation from the Slytherin dungeons shall keep him safe."

Severus nodded. "That is the case, my Lord."

Voldemort leaned into his chair, looking for all the world like a disarranged, mutated king on his throne. "Severus, there have been developments in your absence." Pause. "Congratulations are in order to Parkinson and Nott. Their children have joined our ranks."

Severus directed his attention to the two in question and nodded a silent congratulations, choosing his following words carefully so as not to seem insincere. "I'm sure they will fare much more successfully than Draco."

Voldemort chuckled darkly. "Dumbledore shall not be able to keep Draco safe from _them."_

From her seat, Bellatrix gave a high pitched cackle, one that was filled with genuine mirth. She threw back her head with glee and then lowered it again to meet Severus' eyes, giving him a knowing and demented stare.

He could not fend off the deep feeling of foreboding that descended on him as he left, and Bella's shrills followed him all the way back to Hogwarts.

.

* * *

.

In Dumbledore's office, Severus paced continuously about the circular room. Dumbledore was seated at his desk, appearing serene and peaceful as was the older wizard's usual demeanor. But Severus knew better: the Headmaster was quite as distressed as he.

"This is unfortunate news," Dumbledore said quietly.

"Unfortunate? _Unfortunate?"_ Severus objected furiously. "This, coming from a man who didn't make an Unbreakable Vow to protect the boy! Just what am I supposed to do now, Albus? Tell me how I'm supposed to preserve anyone's life at this point! Either Parkinson and Nott will die, or it shall be Draco and me. There is no escaping it."

Dumbledore gave a deep sigh and leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers together. "Perhaps Miss Parkinson and Mister Nott will also prove incapable of murder."

Severus laughed derisively. "They are my students, Albus. Forgive me for saying that I know them far better than you."

Dumbledore's bright blue eyes met Severus' stare honestly. "I do not believe they will go so far."

" _They will!_ Parkinson is full of malice and hatred. She is malignant, and she is the very worst kind of person. She has all of Gryffindor's recklessness combined with all of Slytherin's manipulation," Severus ranted, still pacing. "And Nott. Nott is as cunning as he is quiet. I have no doubt that either of them will hesitate to kill Draco if given the opportunity."

"Then you shall have to do what you vowed to do, Severus," Dumbledore said bluntly. "Protect him."

"It's not the same as last term, Headmaster," he countered. "The boy was not under the same threat. Now, he has attackers who are under the very same roof. They take classes together. They take meals at the same table!"

"But they do not share the same dormitory," Dumbledore pointed out. "I daresay it shall not be easy for them to attack him."

"You are underestimating them. Especially Miss Parkinson."

Out of the corner of his eye, Severus noticed Dumbledore's decaying hand. He approached the desk and, palm outstretched, said, "Allow me to see it, Headmaster."

Albus shook his head sadly. "I would have to remove my robes for you to see the extent of it. It's here."

Dumbledore placed a hand in the middle of his own chest to indicate how far the curse had spread, and Severus was filled with grief. He sank in one of the wing-backed chairs in front of the Headmaster's desk and let his head drop into his hands. In his entire lifetime, there had only been two people in front of whom Severus allowed himself to come apart: one of them was Lily Evans, who was long dead; the other was Albus Dumbledore, who would be dead before the end of the month.

"How much longer, Severus?"

The younger wizard looked up at his employer through a shining curtain of black hair. "Weeks."

Dumbledore nodded. "I suspected as much. I have already begun to make my arrangements."

"I will brew another potion," Severus told him. "But after that excursion of yours and Potter's, I doubt that it shall make much of a difference. However, we may be able to buy you a few more weeks."

Dumbledore rose from his desk and traveled to the window, through which he gazed over the grounds, his hands clasped behind his back: one white, one black. "It is not my own life that I fear for," he said quietly.

Severus understood his meaning. "Have you passed on to Potter what information he needs to know? What he must do?"

"I have told him certain things, but there is still more to tell him yet," Dumbledore answered.

Severus took a step toward Dumbledore, watching his back with measured intensity. "And the most important part? Have you told him that?"

Albus did not respond immediately. "I have not," he finally admitted, and a surge of indignance rushed through Severus.

"Albus, you cannot seriously be thinking of letting him find out on his own!"

"It is essential that he remain unaware until the right time, Sev-"

But Severus cut him off. "How can you claim to care so much for him and not even tell him the whole story?" he demanded, incensed. "You are playing him like he is a pawn in Wizard's Chess!"

Dumbledore turned slowly to face the younger wizard, and Severus wondered if he had gone too far. But to his surprise, Albus did not look angry but melancholy. The look of a great sorcerer with the weight of the world bearing down.

"Harry Potter is not a pawn, Severus. Far from it," the Headmaster said grimly. "He is a king."

"It is but a _game_ to you, Albus. You are playing with _lives,_ the lives of children."

Dumbledore sighed. "You shall understand when the time comes, Severus."

"And what of Hermione Granger? The girl is now in as much danger as Draco is. By placing them in the same dorm, you have made her a target. More of a target than she already was."

"They are all targets. And they have been for years. Is it so much different now?"

"None of them ought to have returned to Hogwarts! Especially Draco!" Severus seethed.

"I still believe that they are more protected here than they would be abroad. At least, for as long as I am still alive."

"I do hope you are right, Headmaster. For all of their sakes. God forbid you provide them with some actual _instruction."_

With that, Severus strode purposefully toward the door and left, leaving Dumbledore and their argument behind but dragging his anger along with him.

He wondered if he would manage any sleep tonight.

.

* * *

.

Draco had skipped lunch. The loathing that was radiating toward him from every direction had become far too much to bear.

Pansy made no effort to hide her glares. Crabbe and Goyle had kept shooting him furtive, rancorous looks every time Draco happened to glance up and accidentally meet their eyes. The only one of the housemates in the Draco's year who was associated with Voldemort and who had _not_ appeared to give him much thought was Theo, but Draco was not deceived. He knew Theo, had known him for years and therefore knew that his vindictiveness had no boundaries whatever. In classes, Draco had sat next to Zabini, but Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis had also been friendly enough.

Draco could not remember a time when he had felt more unwanted. And hated. At Grimmauld Place, he had been uncomfortable (to say the least,) but their lot were too righteous to really act hostile toward him. They were just too _good._ They had welcomed his family. Arthur Weasley had told him personally that he was glad he had made the right decision, glad that Draco had searched his own heart and found the light. Molly Weasley had been more than civil: she had been plain gracious.

Of course, the ones from his parents' generation had history and were less receptive to Narcissa and Lucius Malfoy; meanwhile, the ones from his own generation were less receptive to Draco himself. But even then, they had made no outright objections to his presence - not even Potter, not even Ron or Ginny Weasley.

Then there was Granger, who had not said a word to him during his stay at Grimmauld Place, who had not said a word to him at all until the Prefects' meeting but had dueled him the moment she got him alone in their common room. She had made her feelings quite clear. But that was of no importance to him. Hermione Granger was a Mudblood, and her opinion didn't matter. She was dirty, she was inferior, she was completely insufferable, and he hated her - even if she was sort of good-looking now, her hair was still ugly and her personality was positively hideous.

And here he was, back at Hogwarts, sharing a dorm with her. Sleeping on the other side of the wall from her. At Grimmauld place, the two of them were at least on completely different floors. Here, he was in close proximity to her at all times. What was worse, NEWT classes threw him in with her more often now that so many lessons were not exclusively Slytherin or, alternatively, Slytherin paired with one other House. There were too few students taking certain NEWT classes for that to be the case. So, for classes like Ancient Runes, which was a meager ten people, Granger was there. And he knew that tomorrow when he walked into Arithmancy, Granger would be there, too. Later, when he entered his dormitory, his _home,_ she would be there.

Draco could not imagine a worse life. He was used to being hated by the Gryffindors, to being disliked by Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff, but for his own House to be so against him was an awful feeling.

And could he blame them?

No, he admitted to himself grudgingly, he could not. They were on different sides now. He was a blood traitor. He had taken their values, _his_ values, and stomped on them, spat on them, had effectively renounced them. It was the very worst kind of betrayal. And Parkinson, Nott, Crabbe, and Goyle had every right to hate him. This was war. Logically, they could not be expected to do anything less than attack him, maybe even kill him.

Petulance surged through Draco, setting his veins on fire.

Just where the fuck did Granger get off hating him?

He was on _her_ side. The _good_ side. The line in the sand had been drawn and he was on the right end of things. The Slytherins, he could understand. But her? How dare she try to hex him? How dare she use her filthy hands to hit him? For fuck's sake, he, Draco, had even been one of the people who volunteered to take Polyjuice Potion and become Harry Potter, so that Voldemort could not attack effectively when _the Chosen One_ left his Aunt and Uncle's house in Surrey.

How was it bloody fair that she went on being suspicious of him?

The thought made him want to _Crucio_ her.

Draco jumped to his feet, scooped up a handful of pebbles and then threw them roughly out to the lake, where they sank promptly, the evidence of their weight rippling outward across the surface. The pebbles had been the only things near enough to him that he could use to vent his anger on. Draco then drew his wand and blasted a wordless offensive spell into the earth, which left a crater a foot wide in every direction. Then he blasted another. And another.

"God _dammit!_ " he raged to no one. For there was no one to hear his venting, no one to bully around for his own amusement, no one for him to yell at or use as a walking target.

Draco was sure that he had never felt this livid before in his entire life.


	6. Horcruxes

"Miss Granger, the arrangement cannot be undone," Professor Dumbledore said, and although Hermione could tell by the finality in his voice that it would be futile to argue, she argued anyway.

"But, Professor, sir, I checked and double checked _Hogwarts, A History_ ," she tried, sitting so far forward in her seat that she was very nearly coming off of it. "And I'm positive that there's nothing that says that the Head Boy and Girl have ever shared a dormitory. I just… I just don't understand why it should be different now."

Professor Dumbledore leaned forward, elbows on the table and hands clasped together. Hermione got the impression that he was trying to carefully mind which words he used, though she could not rightfully understand why.

Finally, he fixed her with a direct and somewhat disconcerting stare.

"Miss Granger," he began. "Do you know which seventh-year boy has the highest marks of any of his peers?"

Hermione blinked. Was this a trick question?

"Er, well Malfoy's Head Boy, so I would assume that he has the highest marks."

Professor Dumbledore shook his head.

"Terry Boot has the best grades out of any boy in the seventh year. Draco Malfoy is second," Dumbledore revealed, his normally twinkling blue eyes uncommonly serious.

"But… but then, why - I mean, surely, if Terry's top boy in the class, and with his obvious dedication to his studies, well, he must certainly be a better choice than Malfoy, sir."

"Professors McGonagall, Snape and I have decided that the best way to keep Mister Malfoy safe is for him to be separate from his housemates. In order for us to give him a private dormitory, I made him Head Boy. It is quite as simple as that."

Hermione felt her shoulders fall. It was becoming clear that there was no way to reason her way out of this, which was a discouraging thought.

"Can't I stay in the Gryffindor Tower?" she begged, abandoning all pretense. "Please, Professor, I don't think I can live with him."

Dumbledore gave a gentle smile. "Ah, but you have been living with him for the past two months, have you not?"

"It's not the same. I had Harry and Ron, and the rest of the Order were there -"

"Miss Granger," he interrupted smoothly. "You have been called the brightest witch of your age. And I must say that I quite agree."

Hermione felt herself flush under his praise. It was one thing to be called the brightest witch of her age by Lupin or one of her other Professors, but to be told the same by _Albus Dumbledore_ , one of the greatest wizards of all time… well, that was quite another matter altogether.

She wondered privately if she was being manipulated.

"You are brave, logical, pragmatic," Dumbledore continued. "Now, I am asking you to be compassionate."

 _Compassionate._

"Professor, if I may give my opinion, please?" Hermione straightened her back and lifted her chin.

"Certainly, Miss Granger," he allowed.

"I can't think of a single person I know who deserves my compassion less than Draco Malfoy," she said firmly. "He's spent six years tormenting Harry, Ron, and me. He thinks I am inferior because I am a Muggle-born, and he was a part of a group of murderous villains whose main goal is to eradicate my kind from the face of the Earth."

"Mister Malfoy is not safe in the Slytherin dungeons. He would be vulnerable to those who seek to hurt him," said Dumbledore, quite non-sequitur.

"But, sir, is it really as serious as all that?" Hermione asked desperately. "I know there are other Slytherins whose parents are Death Eaters, but they're still just kids aren't they? A lot of them aren't even of age yet."

"Draco was not of age when he took the mark. He turned seventeen last June," Dumbledore explained patiently. "And I am afraid it _is_ quite serious, Miss Granger. Miss Parkinson and Mister Nott have taken the Mark as well."

Hermione felt her heart drop into her stomach and, for a moment, she could only stare at the Headmaster in disbelief as sadness seeped into her chest. And it was not only because Voldemort's army was growing and getting stronger, not only because their chances of defeating him were dwindling every day, but also because Hermione's heart ached for Parkinson and Nott, whose chances for a bright future had effectively gone out the window. They had surrendered their lives to hate, and they would be forever bound to darkness, pain, torture, and servitude. And though Hermione had despised them, she felt the loss of them acutely.

"That's… awful," Hermione whispered, looking away. She focused on one of the brass trinkets he kept in his office as it spun and whirred, doing whatever function it was designed to do, and then on the window beyond it, through which the Scottish horizon dipped into the misty, faraway grays and blues that mountains often took when they were at a distance. She needed to look at absolutely anything else but him, anything to break contact with the bright blue eyes that seemed to look through her.

"Now, you know that Mister Malfoy is in more danger than you had assumed," Dumbledore said quietly. At first, she did not look at him. "I cannot force you and Draco to get on like friends, Miss Granger, and I cannot force you, Mister Potter or Mister Weasley to trust him. I cannot persuade him to take a different outlook on his bigoted beliefs, although I have tried..."

Hermione finally turned to face him fully, more out of respect and deference than anything else.

"... but I do think it would be rather unbecoming of your character to refuse to extend forgiveness to him after the difficult choices he has made to join us."

Hermione felt suddenly, deeply ashamed. Chastised, she cast her eyes down to the floor and closely examined a chip in the flagstone before there was a knock at the door.

"Ah, that will probably be Mister Malfoy now. Come in!" Professor Dumbledore called, and Hermione turned to see that Malfoy had indeed closed the door behind him and was striding toward the chair next to her.

"Well," Malfoy drawled. "I see you arrived early, Granger. Predictable as usual."

"I wasn't _early_ , Malfoy," she retorted. " _You_ were late."

Malfoy scoffed. "Maybe I've been outside the door all along, Mudbloo-"

"That is quite enough, Mister Malfoy," Dumbledore interjected calmly. "We have already discussed this. I do not care what language you use the rest of the time, or whom you insult, but you will take care to mind your manners in this office."

Hermione remembered a time when Draco Malfoy would have rolled his eyes and snorted at any person for correcting his racism, even if it was the Headmaster who had done the scolding. But that's not what Malfoy did now.

And it surprised her.

"Sorry, Professor Dumbledore," he mumbled under his breath, his eyes darting to the ground, evidently contrite.

"Perhaps I am not the one from whom you should be asking forgiveness," Dumbledore suggested and then looked pointedly at Hermione.

Malfoy adopted a remorseful expression, his eyebrows furrowed upwards as though out of sympathy. Hermione met his pale grey eyes with trepidation. Was she really about to get an _apology_ from Draco Malfoy, hater of all Gryffindors and Muggle-borns?

"Granger," he said. "I'm so sorry - it must be terribly hard to be among so many real witches and wizards. Can't imagine what you're going through. If there's anything I can do-

"Oh, you horrible, ugly little ferret," Hermione seethed, but Malfoy was laughing.

Across his desk, Dumbledore gave a deep, resigned sigh. He looked none too amused. Hermione couldn't fathom how the Headmaster, brilliant though he was, could have thought Malfoy had made a significant change when his ideals were so obviously unaffected.

"If you two are finished acting like children, in the office of your Headmaster, no less... there are things of great importance to discuss."

Both students quieted, Hermione crossing her arms and Malfoy shuffling in his seat so that he was a bit more upright. He still gave an impression of lounging, however, and Hermione rolled her eyes.

"Miss Granger, I have taken the liberty of informing Mister Malfoy of some of the more sensitive details regarding our aims against Voldemort," Dumbledore informed her.

Hermione's eyes widened and she felt her lips part, all of the irritation Malfoy had stirred in her replaced abruptly with shock. "I'm sorry?" Hermione gasped.

Dumbledore gave an almost imperceptible tilt of his head. "Was I wrong to assume that Mister Potter had shared with you what he and I have been researching, Miss Granger? If I'm not mistaken, you and Mister Weasley are his closest and first confidants."

"Yes, sir, he's told me. He told both me and Ron," she rushed out. "But, I mean, Professor Dumbledore, sir, to have told _Malfoy_ about -"

"If Dumbledore sees fit for me to know about the Horcruxes, who are _you_ to question his judgment?" Malfoy cut in, his face twisted into an ugly sneer.

" _Professor_ Dumbledore," Hermione corrected crossly. "And the reasons are obvious, aren't they? You're not trustworthy, Malfoy -"

"Please, Miss Granger," Dumbledore hushed. "You will not have been the first person to question my judgment. I merely thought that since you and Mister Malfoy will be sharing quarters, and because of his new allegiance to the Order, that Mister Malfoy would be able to help."

"Please, sir," she argued. "What if his allegiances change? What if he goes crawling back to his master?"

Hermione punctuated that fear with a contemptuous glare toward the offending wizard.

"Miss Granger, there is another reason for my decision," Dumbledore said before Malfoy had the chance to respond to her accusation. "The time is coming soon when I will not be among you. I shall not be able to assist you three. The reason I brought Mister Malfoy into this hunt is that he has been raised within the pureblood circles, and within the upper-class society which will no doubt be concealing the Horcruxes. He possesses knowledge which the rest of you cannot hope to be privy. I have included him because I believe his presence will be imperative if our goals are to be met."

Hermione clenched her jaw, looking furiously from Dumbledore to Malfoy and back again. She could not argue with the logic, but as Malfoy caught her gaze and held it, she also could not help but feel that this entire situation was so _wrong,_ so completely counter-intuitive…

A long silence passed before Professor Dumbledore seemed to decide that Hermione had accepted the news, however grudgingly.

"I have informed Mister Malfoy of the basics. I am leaving it up to you, Miss Granger, to fill in the blanks," Dumbledore said, finally leaning back in his chair for the first time since before Malfoy had entered the room.

"How am I going to tell Harry?" Hermione asked, almost to herself. "He's going to be absolutely livid when he finds out."

"I shall tell Harry. I believe I can handle him," Dumbledore said mildly.

Malfoy was smirking in that infuriating way again. Hermione ignored him.

"Now then," Dumbledore said happily. "I expect you both to work out shifts for the Prefects' rounds. There will be no need to present them to me, but you shall have to come to some sort of agreement on them and call a meeting amongst yourselves. Aside from that, I would suggest you also have a look at the list of banned items on Mister Filch's door. I am under the impression that he has been continuously making additions since Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes opened in Diagon Alley."

.

* * *

.

"Stupidest thing I've ever heard," Hermione ranted as she marched down to the Great Hall. "Absolutely ridiculous."

Malfoy didn't seem to have any problem keeping up, as his strides were longer, but she looked over at him in disgust and hated him for the way he seemed to match her speed without looking like he was putting forth even the slightest bit of effort.

"Gryffindors. Always so unwilling to share the glory," Malfoy snickered.

"You think this is about _glory?_ This is bigger than that, Malfoy, or is your mind too limited to see anything beyond yourself?"

"Maybe I'm trying to help, Granger," Malfoy retorted, "You're letting your silly Gryffindor emotions cloud your judgment. Maybe you ought to be benched from this whole thing before you put us all in danger."

"Me? _I've_ been there since the very start, Malfoy, so don't go trying to tell any of us who ought to be included," she fired back.

Malfoy gave a disdainful laugh. "I can't believe it, you're _actually_ angry about this."

"Of course I'm _angry,"_ Hermione said as they reached the stairs that would take them to the ground floor. She lowered her voice, aware of their proximity to other students who may have been within earshot. "It's only been two months since you decided you didn't want to be one of them, and already you're involved in the most important part of what we're doing. I can hardly believe he trusts you. That _any_ of the Order trusts you."

"Oh, well, it's settled then," he drawled sarcastically. They were trotting down the steps now. "I'll go on and tell Dumbledore to tender his resignation and we'll put you in charge."

They had reached the doors to the Great Hall. Hermione stopped abruptly and turned on her heel to face him, wand out and trained directly on his face.

Malfoy, who was not quick enough to match her draw, raised his hands up by his face in surrender and took a step back.

"Easy, Granger," he said apprehensively.

"If word gets out to _anybody_ about what we're doing, Malfoy, I swear on the name of Merlin that you will pay," Hermione forced out through gritted teeth. "If you jeopardize this mission, I will make you suffer."

For a few moments, neither of them moved; Hermione stared daggers at him, while Malfoy looked peevishly back. Finally, Hermione lowered her wand, tucked it into her pocket, and walked into the Great Hall, thinking that the worst possible thing that Malfoy could do was underestimate her.

.

* * *

.

Hermione had not returned to her dorm after dinner. She had opted for a walk with Harry and Ron, but as students weren't allowed on the grounds after dark anymore (and without the Invisibility Cloak, the Head Girl could hardly condone it) they had decided to head to the library, where they could comfortably cast a _Muffliato_ and talk amongst themselves. They chose a secluded corner and settled into the chairs, the somewhat rickety table creaking in protest as Hermione leaned toward them and related everything that had been said in the Headmaster's office.

Dumbledore had told her she didn't need to tell Harry and Ron about Malfoy's involvement with the Horcruxes, but the truth was that Harry was going to be furious either way, and Hermione was not going to lie to her best friend out of cowardice.

 _"What?"_ Harry shouted, pounding his fist on the table irately. He looked almost deranged. "How could he think that's a good idea?"

Ron appeared almost as outraged, his eyebrows knit together in a furious expression. He crossed his arms and settled into his chair moodily. "Dumbledore's gone mad, he has. Completely out of it."

"It's not entirely illogical," Hermione reasoned. "He's right about one thing. Malfoy does know more about the pureblood circles than we do, seeing as Ron's family aren't exactly invited to them. Maybe he can be more of an asset than any of us are willing to admit."

"Don't tell me you're on his side now, Hermione," Harry accused.

"I'm _not,_ Harry," she insisted, annoyed. "But it can't very well be taken back now, can it?"

"We can _Obliviate_ him," Ron offered. "That should fix things right up."

"No, we can't," Harry admitted, defeat apparent in the fall of his shoulders. "Dumbledore would tell him again, and we'd be in trouble for messing with people's minds."

Hermione nodded, but Ron scoffed. "You've got a Muggle-hating maniac after your blood and you're worried about getting in trouble with Dumbledore?"

Looking pensive, Harry did not look up at Ron when he spoke. "No," he said. "But after everything he's done, it would be poor repayment."

"I'm just not sure I understand completely." Hermione bit her lip, deep in thought. "I'm not certain Malfoy can really be all that useful. Sure, he knows plenty about the pureblood circles, how they operate and what their customs are, and maybe even the location of some of the Horcruxes once we know what they are. But it isn't as though he's a spy. If a Death Eater or any of Voldemort's sympathizers even lay eyes on Malfoy, he's as good as dead."

Harry nodded his agreement. "Right. He can't get us close to them through deception…"

Hermione watched as a light came on behind Harry's eyes, the kind of light that almost never lead to good things.

"Harry, what are you thinking?" Hermione asked, almost dreading the answer.

Harry turned up his gaze, looking determined. "Draco can't get us close to them, but there is someone who can."

Hermione shook her head. "Not Professor Snape, Harry, you know he can't -"

"No, no! Not Snape, Hermione," Harry said quickly. Ron and Hermione shared a nervous look. "Lucius."

.

.

"Basilisk," Hermione said to the painting, and the subjects seemed to pay no attention to her at all. They went on about their arguing, shaking fists at one another as the painting swung forward. Hermione climbed through the hole, ascended the stairs, and was surprised to see that Malfoy was sitting in one of the armchairs with a red tome open across his lap.

"And just where have _you_ been?" he sneered, looking up from the book.

Hermione bent to scoop Crookshanks into her arm, who had run up to her and was slinking around the hem of her robes. "You're hardly in any position to be asking about my whereabouts," she replied evasively.

"Can't you keep that stupid cat in your own room? It's been annoying the piss out of me all night."

"He gets bored. He needs room to run around," she said simply. "It's my common room too, you know. _And_ his."

"Whatever. He's a hideous creature."

"And you're such the strapping young man yourself, Malfoy," she retorted sarcastically.

"I'm out of your league, Mudblood. So sorry to disappoint."

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Please," she scoffed. "As though I'd be interested in such an arrogant -"

"Dumbledore told you to tell me about the Horcruxes," he interrupted, closing the book and setting it on the coffee table in front of the fireplace.

Hermione paused, unable to hide the hesitance from her gaze as she observed him. She didn't trust him, _couldn't_ trust him, but a small voice in the back of her head told her there was no way to avoid this.

"You should really ask Harry," she told him honestly. "I know which ones have already been destroyed, and what some are possibly expected to be, but he's the one who really knows Voldemort's story."

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "I'm not asking Scarhead."

"If you're going to be a part of this, you're going to have to learn how to be civil with Harry and Ron!"

"I'm not. Because Dumbledore told _you_ to tell me, he didn't tell me to ask Potter."

"What's the difference?" Hermione asked exasperatedly.

"The difference is that at least you have an ounce of sense, whereas Potter and Weasley have the combined intelligence of an ogre."

" _That_ sounded dangerously close to a compliment." Hermione raised an eyebrow, and as Malfoy unfolded his legs to rise from the chair, Crookshanks leaped from her arms, advancing on the wizard defensively.

"It's not a compliment, it's a statement of fact. Though I can't imagine why anyone would take _that_ as flattery, being smarter than Potty and the Weasel. What are they, bottom twenty in the class?"

"That's rich, coming from the idiot who was only made Head Boy for his protection!" Hermione said angrily. Crookshanks seemed to sense her ire, for the cat was spitting madly at Malfoy, his bottle-brush tail standing at rigid attention. "Or didn't you know?"

Malfoy took a step toward her, the only thing separating them being one of the armchairs that framed the fireplace. "Of course, I knew! You act like I would _want_ this stupid badge. _Head Boy._ I can't think of a more useless title. Except, perhaps, the Boy Who Lived. Or Know-It-All Mudblood."

"You're not fooling anyone, Malfoy! I know it kills you to be second to Terry Boot, a half-blood, and to be _third_ to a _Mudblood_ must make you positively suicidal. How does it feel? To know that the people who you've been raised to think are inferior are so far ahead of you?" she asked cruelly.

"Shut up, Granger," Malfoy said in a low voice.

But Hermione did not shut up.

"Have I touched a nerve Malfoy? Need I go on? Need I elaborate on how alone you must feel when none of your house will even speak to you anymore? Without your _idiot_ bodyguards to protect you, and your _hideous_ girlfriend to fawn all over you, without your father to -"

" _I'm warning you, Mudblood!_ " he shouted, and in an instant, his wand was directed between her eyes; Hermione had drawn her own, and they were facing each other with hate radiating off their bodies.

"Don't talk about my father!"

Crookshanks gave a yowl and pounced, claws extended as he landed on Malfoy's shoulder. The wizard staggered back and gave a growl of pain, grabbing Crookshanks by the scruff of his neck and pulling. Hermione heard the tear of Crookshanks' claws ripping through Malfoy's robes before the cat twisted in midair, hit the bookshelf, and landed on the floor.

"Don't touch him!" Hermione shrieked and raised her wand arm. " _Stupefy!"_

Malfoy deflected the spell. "Don't _touch_ him?! That stupid animal attacked me, it's lucky I didn't snap its neck!"

Hermione fired a non-verbal Impediment Jinx, deciding that casting her spells aloud was the reason he was so easily blocking them, but Malfoy had been ready anyway.

He dived to his left, nearly colliding with the fireplace as the jinx sailed past him.

"Is that what you're going to do, Malfoy? Will you do the dirty work yourself this time, since you don't have your _pathetic_ father around to bully the Ministry into executing innocent creatures for you?"

"I said, don't talk about my father!" he yelled and fired a spell her way without speaking. Hermione ducked quickly behind the armchair but it turned out to have been the worst possible thing she could have done because when the chair blew backward and knocked her to the floor, she realized too late that Malfoy had cast the Reductor Curse; he hadn't fired it at _her_ but at the furniture itself.

Hermione felt the wind leave her chest first, and then the sharp stab of pain as the back of her head smacked against the stone floor. She heard Crookshanks make a furious noise, and she could only assume her cat had come to her defense, but half a second later she heard Malfoy shout " _Incarcerous!"_ and she knew from Crookshanks' pitiful mewl that the spell had hit its mark.

Hermione gave the chair a hard push and rolled her body to the side. She had managed to hold on to her wand through her fall, but it left her hand suddenly and she knew that Malfoy had disarmed her. She rushed to get to her feet, but the next thing she knew, Malfoy's shoes had entered into her line of vision, and his hand came down roughly on her shoulder before he flipped her over so she that was on her back. Malfoy then straightened out, his wand trained on her face as he looked down at her.

Filled with rage, Hermione ignored his wand and the possibility of being hexed, bravely grabbing hold of his ankle and pulling it as hard as she could toward herself.

Malfoy gave a surprised grunt before his legs came out from under him and he fell to the ground with a satisfying thud.

"Give me my wand, Malfoy!" she demanded, scrambling over to him and snatching at the hand that held her weapon. She grabbed a hold of his wrist and attempted to wrench it from his hand, trying to use her weight against him to prevent him getting up.

Finally, her wand came free, but Malfoy had gained enough leverage to push his back off the ground, using his left hand to grab hold of her wrist and point her wand toward the ceiling. He managed to get to his knees, and then Hermione felt Malfoy turn her body around and press her, face first, into the floor.

She flailed as hard as she could, but he had overpowered her. Hermione's wand arm was pinned over her head and her left was twisted against her back as Malfoy bore down from above. "Apologize!" he ordered, his voice loud in her ear.

"When Flobberworms fly, Malfoy!" she ground out.

"Apologize for insulting my father, Mudblood!"

"Apologize for insulting Harry and Ron!" she screamed, and Malfoy pulled her arm up toward her head. Pain shot up to her shoulder and she cried out, the pressure almost too much to bear. "Let me go, Malfoy!"

"I'll let you go when you've given my father a proper apology!"

The pain was becoming excruciating, but Hermione Granger would not apologize. And she would not beg.

She had another idea.

"What would your mother think?" she gasped, her words rushed and close together in her agony.

Hermione felt Malfoy relax his grip fractionally and the easing of the pain was a welcome relief.

"What are you on about, Granger?" Malfoy growled.

"What would your mother think if she could see you now? If she could see you twisting a woman's arm behind her back?"

Malfoy was silent for a moment.

"I doubt she'd care whether I was hurting a Mudblood either which way," he said finally, but Hermione could tell there was no conviction in his voice, and he had yet to pull her arm up again to inflict any more pain.

"Are you sure about that, Draco?" she asked, deliberately using his first name.

He scoffed. "Hypocrite! With all your bloody feminism, all your sniffy ' _witches are just as capable as wizards_ ' rubbish. Now you're trying to use my mother against me?"

"Let me go, Malfoy. You know she wouldn't want this," Hermione tried again.

The seconds seemed to stretch on forever as Malfoy considered. Hermione waited with bated breath, preparing herself for the pain if he decided to twist her arm up further. But after a few long, _long_ moments, Malfoy lowered himself so his mouth was close to her ear.

"Tomorrow, Granger," he hissed. "Tomorrow you tell me about the fucking Horcruxes."

And then the weight was lifted. Malfoy had backed off. Hermione pushed herself back onto her heels and exhaled a slow, calming breath, clutching her shoulder as she slowly got to her feet. She turned to look at Malfoy, but he was already disappearing into his room.

Hermione smoothed out her hair as best as she could and then righted the armchair with her wand. An aggressive yowl sounded from behind the couch and, remembering her cat, she rushed around and gathered her him into her arms. "Oh, Crookshanks, I'm so sorry, boy. _Finite."_

The ropes that had bound him fell away and disappeared. Crookshanks then gave an affronted meow and, casting her one outraged glare, leaped onto the bookshelf and settled himself in. Clearly, he would not be sleeping in her room tonight.

Hermione sighed.

* * *

 **Thanks to everyone who consistently reads and reviews. I would love to be that author that responds to every review she gets, but I just haven't the time. Rest assured that you all keep me going. And for my lurkers, I appreciate you equally.**


	7. Doxycide

Draco was furious, pacing about his room while his mind whirled with thoughts of Granger and her stupidity. Out of the two nights that he had been living in this shared common room with her, both had ended with a duel and then violence. Draco was hardly the one to blame - she had attacked him first on each occasion. He had known that she was predisposed to violence (however prim and proper she tried to project herself to be) and had known as much since third year when she'd slapped him during that blasted Hippogriffs would-be execution. Two evenings in a row she had cast the first spell, and two evenings in a row he had tried to act defensively rather than strike her back.

"Hypocrite!" he shouted scathingly, hoping that the girl was able to hear through the walls that separated them. How dare _she_ attack _him_ and then use his own mother as a sodding _weapon_ when she realized that he could not be overcome?

It was entirely her fault.

What was Draco supposed to do, stand there and allow her to hex him and not respond in kind? Maybe he should not have put his hands on her, maybe he should have resisted the urge to attack her physically, but why would he have let her have the last laugh when he could just pin her down and be done with it?

Did she expect Draco to just let her beat him when he was perfectly capable of overpowering her using his strength and size? And for what, for the name of _nobility?_ Of _chivalry?_ He snorted. Not bloody likely. Fortunately, Draco did not suffer from such thoroughly Gryffindor ideals.

But Granger had been right. His mother had not raised him to behave that way when it came to women.

When Draco he was eight years old, Pansy had come to the manor while their fathers discussed… well, whatever it was they had been meeting each other about back then. Draco and Pansy had been playing a game of tag and she had tripped him while he was running. Draco had flown forward and landed on his face on the tile floor, and he was so angry that he had grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to both of their mothers so one of the adults could punish her like he had felt she deserved. But when Draco pulled her into the drawing room, Narcissa was out of her wits with rage. Draco argued that Pansy had tripped him first, but Narcissa told him firmly that he was never, under any circumstances, to hit a girl. No matter what she had done. In the end, his mother had ordered his father to cane him. Lucius didn't stop until Draco's arse was bruised.

Part of him wanted to believe that his mother would not have cared whether he hurt a Mudblood woman or not, but he had told Granger as much with less confidence than he really felt.

Draco had not _hit_ Granger, exactly, but if he was honest about it, he knew that his mother would not have approved of his actions: that had been the reason why he released her.

Whatever else he thought about Granger, he had to admit, she was one shrewd bitch.

But Draco had been so angry. That stupid animal whose name he did not care to remember had ripped through his robes and clawed his skin. Did she really think he was just going to gently disengage the ugly creature and set him back on the floor? And when she had pulled his leg out from under him and he had come crashing down to the ground, what else was he supposed to do?

A low growl left Draco's throat just thinking about it. His robes had been easy enough to repair and the fine scratches were of no consequence after he healed them, but it was the sheer _principle_ of the matter.

And what was the big _fucking_ deal about the Horcruxes?

Dumbledore had been the one to let him into that sphere of knowledge. Maybe asking Granger to accept that had been too much to hope for... but hadn't Dumbledore, the leader of the Order of the Phoenix, the foremost champion of the resistance against Voldemort, made the decision? Wasn't it _Dumbledore's_ judgment that was supposed to be the reigning power?

Didn't Granger realize that Draco had his _family_ to protect?

Didn't she realize that all this was bigger than their stupid schoolyard rivalry? That he had elected to be a part of this side of the war for a _reason_?

Draco was not going to go out of his way to convince her _or_ her two pet morons that he was fighting for their side.

He, Draco, had not killed Dumbledore, even though he knew that to accept his Headmaster's help would be to ensure his death if the Order lost the war; he had told their lot everything he knew about the Dark Lord's plans, locations, and possible weaknesses, and had been the one to persuade both of his parents to do the same; on the night he and six others had impersonated Harry Potter and flown across Britain, Draco had dueled against Voldemort himself, and it was Draco's Shielding Charm that had saved both Mad-Eye Moody's life and his own.

And still, he was being treated as though he was the same impressionable boy who had done the Dark Lord's bidding. He admitted that he had made a grave mistake by not getting out as soon as Voldemort threatened his family, but didn't she understand that he had been acting out of fear for his and his parents' lives?

Perhaps if he looked at things from her point of view, he could understand her behavior. But damn if he was just going to let her push him out of this when the only two people whom Draco loved were at stake.

Draco was about to let out his aggravation in a hot shower when he heard the insistent tapping of a beak on glass. Realizing that someone had owled him, Draco crossed the room to the window and opened it. The tawny bird flew in, perching gracefully on the writing desk.

In his frustration, Draco must have been more rough with the owl than he realized, because the animal gave a loud hoot as he was untying the letter and, once Draco freed the scroll from its leg, it gave an indignant click of its beak and then bit him.

"Fuck!" He reached for the offending bird but wound up grabbing at open air, for the owl flapped its wings and then was off, flying through the window before Draco had the chance to retaliate or even berate the creature. Looking resentfully down at his now bleeding finger, Draco unrolled the parchment and read:

 _My office._

 _Now._

 _Professor Snape_

Draco stole a quick glance at his clock. It was nearly midnight. He guessed it didn't strictly matter when you were Head Boy. Grumbling, Draco went to his trunk, extracted a black cloak from its depths, and left.

.

* * *

.

"Your stupid owl bit me," Draco said as he strode into the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom and through the door that led into Snape's office.

The Slytherin Head of House was scribbling something onto a piece of parchment and did not look up when Draco approached the desk.

"That's a pity, Draco. Although, I do not own an owl," he responded with his usual silky manner of speech. "Perhaps you should go to the owlery and exact your revenge."

"I didn't come here so you can make sarcastic remarks," Draco retorted, his already high level of annoyance rising steadily. All the younger wizard really wanted to do was take a hot shower and go to bed, yet here he was at a quarter of one in the morning with Snape, a man whom he was able to stomach less and less every day.

Snape's fathomless black eyes shot up and he sneered quite hideously. "You came here because I ordered you to. Sit down."

Draco muttered some very offensive things under his breath but did as he was told. The sooner he was out of this office, the better off he would be.

"Has Granger explained about the Horcruxes yet?" Snape asked, his quill still poised over the parchment as though this was a fleeting conversation that had interrupted his work, rather than a meeting he had called himself. It irritated Draco, who at the same time was surprised... he hadn't realized that Snape knew anything about the Horcruxes at all.

He gave a harsh laugh. "No. The bitch hasn't told me a single thing."

Snape raised his brow. For a moment, Draco wondered if he was going to correct him for using profane language. He didn't. "And have you _asked_ her?"

"Of course I _asked_ her. She told me to ask Potter."

"Why would she say that?"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I don't bloody well know _why._ She said she knew what some of them might be, but then some other rubbish about her not knowing as much about the Dark Lord's backstory."

Snape seemed to consider this, for he was silent for a few beats. "I shall tell Dumbledore. You and Granger will need to view the memories yourselves."

Draco hadn't a clue what he was talking about. "That's what you summoned me here to ask? About some sodding memories?"

"No, Draco, it is _not."_ Snape snarled, and Draco knew from their close proximity over the past year that he had begun to test his professor's patience.

"Well, then get on with -"

"Silence!" the older wizard demanded harshly. He set down his quill, leaning toward Draco menacingly. "You would do well to remember which wizards are trying to help you, Draco, and treat them with respect."

Draco's temper flared. "You aren't protecting me because you give a shit, you made the Unbreakable Vow to my mother. That's the only reason you've gone out of your way, because you'll drop dead if you don't-"

" _Parkinson and Nott are Death Eaters,_ you insolent brat!"

The rant that had been about to spill freely from Draco's mouth lost its momentum. The young Slytherin uncrossed his arms and then crossed them again, unsure of what to say or how to react.

Pansy, a Death Eater. He had disliked her for years and on his worst days could hardly bear to be in the same room with the contentious young woman. He had adopted that sort of weary resentfulness toward her that was so common when incompatible personalities were forced to spend a lot of time in each others company, and even more so after he had slept with her. But to learn that she had really, actually crossed over that threshold and into the Dark was a blow he felt deep in his gut. And Theo had been rather a close friend, one of those with whom he got on quite well and who could be counted on for intelligent conversation. The three of them had basically grown up with each other, visiting each other's homes and playing Quidditch once they were old enough to fly, while their parents got together to do whatever grown ex-Death Eaters did with one another after the first fall of the Dark Lord. But that had been the 80s, before the three of them had started school, before his father had been sent to Azkaban, before Voldemort had swept into his life and wrecked everything… and before Draco had made the choice to oppose him.

Now, Pansy and Theo stood on a different side, and not just in the figurative sense, like the way Gryffindors and Slytherins stood on different sides metaphorically, but in the literal, _tangible_ sense. In the sense that they were serving the Dark Lord like they had been bred to do and Draco was a dirty blood traitor who had committed the worst kind of treason against them.

"Did you expect me to be surprised?" Draco said with as much ferocity as he could muster, but it came out less convincing than it sounded in his head. Maybe he hadn't been surprised, necessarily, but of course he was upset. More upset, in fact, than he would allow himself to reveal. "So they took the Mark. So what? We both knew it would happen eventually."

" _So_ you're in more danger than Professor Dumbledore and I had expected you to be," Snape clarified, his voice full of irritation.

"What does their political alliance have to do with me?"

"They have orders, Draco," Snape enunciated each word slowly, as though Draco were the thickest student he'd ever had the displeasure of mentoring.

"Well, if he's given _them_ the directive to off Dumbledore -"

" _Professor_ Dumbledore," Snape corrected.

"- then we'd better not tell them that he's getting ready to kick the bucket any day now, or they'll just take the credit for themselves -"

" _Their orders are to kill you, Draco,"_ the Head of House ground out, getting to his feet and placing his palms on the desk so that he could lean forward and put himself level with the younger wizard.

Draco felt the weight of that statement like a lead ball to the chest. He faltered for a brief moment but recovered.

"Well, that's quite a telling order. The Dark Lord must think I'm a formidable threat if he assigned one teenager to kill Albus Dumbledore, and two more to kill one teenager."

"It's not a _joke."_ Snape was close to shouting now, which Draco knew only happened when his teacher was at the end of his rope.

"I'm not afraid of them!"

Snape arched his brow again. "You believe you can handle them? Two against one?"

"I can handle Pansy pretty well, actually." Draco grinned deviously. "If the past is anything to go by."

Professor Snape scoffed lightly and left his desk, traveling to the window and looking out through its grimy panes. Draco wondered what Snape could be observing at this time of night when, from this height, the entire grounds would be layered in inky blackness.

"Professor Dumbledore is under the impression that they will prove incapable of carrying out their directives. He believes that they are not murderers," Snape told him, not turning to look at his student and charge as he spoke.

"He's an idiot, then," Draco said flippantly. "Nott is as ruthless as they come, and Pansy… well, let's just say that Pansy is smarter and more manipulative than she looks. They're not quicker than I am, but that hardly means that they won't try their damndest. They were born for this kind of shit."

"I told him the same thing," Snape admitted. "But in spite of all that, I hope Professor Dumbledore is right."

Draco snorted. "And what would make you think he's right?"

Snape turned to look at him and the Slytherin Head of House gave Draco a long, considering stare. "He was not wrong about you, after all."

.

* * *

.

Draco sat facing Daphne and Tracey at breakfast and had to admit that he quite enjoyed their company. He always had lessons with the two Slytherin girls because they were all in the same year, but the thought struck him now that he had known both of them very little. The realization had come to him suddenly, the way things do when you start spending more time with people whom you'd never paid much attention to before.

Tracey was talking about her home in Wales, where he hadn't known she was from, and Draco also had no idea that Daphne was engaged to another Slytherin who was two years ahead of them. He remembered now why he had never tried to sleep with the attractive blonde. Draco wasn't surprised, for purebloods from wealthy families were often betrothed very early in life. Arranged marriages had fallen out of favor decades ago, but that fact had never stopped parents from pressuring their children to marry into whichever families they saw fit to keep the pureblood lines strong. And in order to live up to the heavy expectations, the children almost always gave in.

"Double potions today," Blaise was saying through his toast as he observed the week's schedule.

"Ugh, don't talk while you're eating," Tracey scolded.

Blaise showed his mouthful of chewed bread in response. "Squeamish, Trace?"

Draco and Daphne laughed while Tracey grimaced, and at that moment hundreds of owls swooped in from the high windows of the Great Hall and began dropping mail to various students. Draco was not surprised in the least when he didn't receive anything. The only people who wrote to him were not allowed to send mail from Grimmauld Place. There had been a time when Draco would have gotten plenty of letters from his father and sweets from his mum; he tried hard not to look disappointed that he would no longer be corresponding with them.

Daphne did get mail, however, and she tore through the envelope excitedly.

"It's from Adrian," she said with a smile, although no one had asked. Her beautiful green eyes darted swiftly across the parchment and then she shrieked with glee. "Oh, he's done it! He's actually done it!"

Blaise rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Well, don't be vague, Greengrass. I'm sure we're all dying to know what you're on about."

"He's the new Chaser for the Wimbourne Wasps!" she told them, her cheeks flushing appealingly as she hopped up from the bench and rushed out of the hall.

"Who would have guessed?" Draco shrugged. "Adrian Pucey, gone on to be a professional Quidditch player."

Blaise sighed. "The ugly blokes get all the good looking ones."

"You know she has a sister, Astoria. She's a fifth year…" Tracey was saying to Blaise, but the conversation faded to the back of Draco's mind as he looked down the table and saw Pansy watching him with an odd sort of expression on her face.

Theo seemed to be paying more attention to his breakfast and had apparently not noticed at all that his companion had been making such a spectacle of herself. Draco smirked at her, wagging both his eyebrows suggestively.

Pansy winked and smirked back.

.

* * *

.

Some NEWT subjects had enough students enrolled in them that there was no need to have all four houses thrown together in one lesson, and Potions was one such class. Disappointingly, though, they were still paired with the Gryffindors. Blaise and Draco chose a table toward the back of the classroom and waited as the rest of their peers filed in.

He decided that now would be the best time to work on the schedule for the Prefects' rounds, and as he pulled some parchment from his bag to fashion a rota, in came the Gryffindor Golden-fucking-trio, followed by Parvati Patil.

Draco didn't miss the scathing glare that Potter and Weasley shot him as they entered the room and took the table in front of him, which Draco returned in kind. Granger and Patil took their own table to the left, and Draco sneered at the back of Granger's bushy head but said nothing as he turned his eyes back down to the rota.

Just then, Professor Slughorn entered the room, his black robes swishing around his portly body as he made for the desk at the front of the dungeon classroom. "Welcome, welcome, students!" he said jovially. "Welcome to seventh-year NEWT Potions. Please put away whatever you're working on over there, Mister Malfoy, today shall be particularly challenging. We shall be brewing Doxycide, which will no doubt take up the majority of the lesson."

Grumbling, Draco put away the rota.

"Now, can anyone tell me what the chief ingredient of Doxycide is?"

Predictably, Granger's hand shot into the air.

"Yes, Miss Granger!"

"The main ingredient in Doxycide are Doxy eggs," she said promptly. Behind her, Blaise leaned close to Draco and mumbled something quite insulting. Draco snickered loudly, but Granger did not turn around to see what the fuss was about. He wasn't discouraged. He'd earn her reaction in their dorm if not during the lesson.

"Very good, Miss Granger. Take five points. And can anyone tell me why this potion is so difficult to brew? Mister Potter?" Slughorn was watching Scarhead hopefully, and Draco remembered suddenly that Potter had excelled unprecedentedly in their NEWT-level Potions class last term. But the Boy-Who-Lived didn't seem to know the answer.

Draco watched the back of Potter's unkempt head as it shook back and forth slowly.

"Er, no sir, I don't know," Potter said in a low voice.

Professor Slughorn's face fell, clearly disappointed. Out of the corner of his eye, Draco noticed Granger's hand as it shot into the air again.

"Doxycide is difficult to brew because the Doxy eggs must be kept alive for at least an hour into the process. The brewer must keep the potion at a high enough temperature to dissolve the powdered dragon's talon, but a low enough temperature that the Doxy eggs don't boil prematurely."

"Very good, Miss Granger. Take another five points."

Draco observed with astonishment as Potter and Granger shared a competitive glare, the Gryffindor princess' arrogant pursing of her lips, and Potter's responding sneer. There was no malice between them, but Draco could not recall a time when he'd ever noticed that the two really contended with one another academically. He wondered what had brought it on.

Or… or maybe that wasn't exactly right. Maybe Draco had been too preoccupied with the Vanishing Cabinet during last term to have noticed whether Potter and Granger had been competing or not.

The remainder of the lesson went by fairly smoothly. Draco and Blaise had successfully brewed their Doxycide with no problems and, of course, Granger and Patil had finished at the same time. In front of him, though, Potter and Weasley were arguing with one another in low, furious whispers, and Draco could tell from the black smoke rising from their cauldron that they had not been able to brew the potion properly.

"...should have partnered with Hermione and Parvati," Weasley was muttering, fanning his hands to keep the smoke at bay.

Professor Slughorn came to their table, looking quite distressed.

"The temperature was much too high, Mister Weisser. You've killed your Doxy eggs. Pity. Mister Potter, next time go on and partner with Miss Granger instead. Scourgify." And the malodorous potion disappeared. Slughorn waddled away and did not notice that, behind his back, Weasley had gone very red in the face and Potter was snickering.

Draco leaned forward. "What's the matter, Potter? Lost your touch?"

Both wizards whipped around in their seats. "Shut it, Malfoy," Potter hissed, quietly enough that Slughorn wouldn't hear.

Blaise grinned as Draco said, "Now, now... calm down, Potter, there's no need to get testy. I was merely observing that you weren't able to follow simple instructions. They're written on the board, you know. How did you two bumbling idiots manage an OWL in Potions, anyway?"

"Cheated off Granger, I expect," Blaise chimed in, and both Slytherins laughed unkindly.

"Knock it off, Malfoy," Weasley said, louder now.

"I'll wager being the know-it-all's boyfriend comes with plenty of _benefits,_ " Draco jeered, aware that the rest of the class had turned to watch the exchange. The other Slytherins were sniggering openly.

"Don't talk about her like that!" Weasley shouted as he began to rise from his seat.

But Granger and Potter acted quickly. They both stood at the same time and each grabbed a hold of Weasley's robes, pulling him back and away from the table that Draco and Blaise were sharing.

"Ignore him, Ron, just ignore him. He doesn't know what he's talking about," Granger said, glowering pompously. Draco held her gaze and the witch looked unsettled. But only slightly.

Professor Slughorn seemed to realize that there was some sort of commotion going on, for he turned from the cage of Doxies that he had been tending to on his desk, his protuberant eyes round and searching. "What is the meaning of all this, then?" he asked, looking from the Gryffindors to the Slytherins and back again.

Granger cleared her voice. "Nothing, Professor Slughorn. Malfoy and Zabini were just saying that they wanted to volunteer their Doxycide to be tested."

Professor Slughorn smiled. "Well, certainly, certainly. To the front then, Mister Malfoy, if you please." He looked at the three Gryffindors, who were still standing and looking quite murderous.

"Miss Granger, Mister Potter, Mister Woozlib, do sit down."

The three of them slid into their seats.

Draco took a vial of the potion, stood, and then sauntered over to the front of the classroom, where he took the proffered spray bottle and transferred the Doxycide into it. He aimed the spray bottle at the Doxies, who had become suddenly violent, shrieking fearfully as though they knew what was about to happen. Once Draco was satisfied that he had sprayed all of them, he lowered the bottle and watched as Doxy after Doxy fell to the bottom of the cage, dead.

"Well done, Mister Zabini, Mister Malfoy. Well done! Fifteen points to Slytherin, I think!" Professor Slughorn beamed.

The bell rang, and Professor Slughorn dismissed the class without assigning any homework. Draco smirked at Granger as he went to his table, collected his bag, and left, noting with satisfaction that her expression was hostile and her fists were clenched.

.

* * *

.

It turned out that NEWT-level Transfiguration was a highly sought-after subject than Potions, for when Draco entered the classroom, he noticed that this lesson was also divided between Slytherin and Gryffindor. The class was large enough, and many of his Slytherin house-mates had elected to take it, including Blaise, Daphne, Tracey, Pansy, and Theo. Potter, Weasley, and Granger were there as well as the Gryffindor Patil twin, and that long-haired brunette that Weasley had dated in their sixth year.

Draco sat next to Tracey in the back.

Professor McGonagall announced that they were beginning human transfiguration this year and would be starting small by turning their partner's hand into a horse's hoof. After McGonagall had lectured them all _extensively_ on the dangers of human transfiguration (you could turn a person into an inanimate object and kill them if it were not done properly,) they began.

Tracey was less successful at it than Draco was, although he himself had barely managed his feat by the end of the lesson. He was able to transfigure her hand into the shape of the hoof, but it still retained its human skin, which was frustrating and upset him more and more as the class went on.

He looked over at Granger and couldn't help feeling angry that she had so easily transfigured Ernie Macmillan's hand after only a few attempts, but his spirits lightened when he noticed her terrified expression as Macmillan pointed his wand at _her_ hand and was failing horribly. Rather than transfiguring into a hoof, Granger's hand had grown long, black claws that were sprouting hair at the joints. Draco laughed heartily and was so amused by the end of the lesson that he had hardly even been able to focus on his own work.

"Mister Malfoy," McGonagall chided angrily. "You shall stay after class so we can discuss your attitude. Five points from Slytherin."

There was an audible groan from the rest of his house.

Finally, the bell rang. Draco stood to gather his things and approached the desk as McGonagall had asked him to. But once most of the Slytherins had gone, McGonagall stopped Potter, Weasley, and Granger at the door as well.

"You three, close the door," the professor ordered, and the Trio exchanged confused looks with one another.

"I apologize for that, Mister Malfoy. I used your bad manners as an excuse to keep you late," she explained.

Secretly grateful that McGonagall hadn't outed him in front of the rest of his house, Draco asked, "Can Slytherin take the five points back, then?"

The answer was a stern and simple "No."

Potter, Granger, and Weasley gathered around the desk as their professor sat down behind it. Draco did not get as close: he wasn't one of them, after all.

"Miss Granger, Mister Malfoy, and Mister Weasley, you three shall all go to the Headmaster's office after dinner. Professor Dumbledore has something to discuss with you all. Mister Potter, you are welcome to join them, although it is to my understanding that there is no need for you to be there if you would rather go back to your common room. The Headmaster said that you have already seen what he is planning to show them."

The Golden Trio all looked at each other and then, slowly, turned to look at Draco, their expressions stony. Granger, as usual, looked as though she understood; Weasley looked at least mildly irritated; Potter looked positively beside himself with anger.

"No. I'll go with them," Potter said, and his bright green eyes never left Draco's for even a moment.


	8. RAB

**Thanks to everyone who keeps reviewing. I love to hear your thoughts on the development.**

* * *

Harry, Ron, and Hermione decided to take a trip down to the lake before dinner in order to have at least some measure of privacy.

Hermione had really wanted to go to the library, where she could cast a _Muffliato_ and begin working on their Transfiguration assignment, but Harry argued that he was far too wound up to be around so many people, and when the two of them had turned to Ron to break the tie, Ron had simply shrugged and said, "Well, the weather's not going to be fair too much longer, right?"

They had out-voted her, two to one.

So there they all were, with Harry pacing back and forth along the lakeshore and Ron skipping rocks across the water, as usual. Hermione, also in top form, was still working on her homework, but with her book open across her lap as she reclined against a tree.

"I can't believe this is actually happening!" Harry fumed, kicking viciously at an unfortunate plant that had sprouted close to the water. "Last year, Dumbledore told me expressly not to tell anyone but you two about the memories. Now he's gone and brought _Malfoy_ into it, like he's a part of things. Like he's got a _right_ to know what's going on."

"Maybe the Ministry's got it right, after all. Maybe he's really gone off his rocker." Ron's pebble skipped one, two, three times over the surface.

"What d'you reckon Malfoy's playing at, anyway? By trying to be involved, I mean. One moment he's letting Death Eaters into the castle and the next he's trying to track down Horcruxes. What d'you think he means by it?" Harry was asking. "Hermione? _Hermione!_ "

Hermione looked up from the book. "Oh, sorry, hang on a moment."

Harry's face twisted. "Are you even listening?"

She marked her page and set the book down. "Yes, I'm listening, Harry," she replied calmly. "I'm just trying not to fall behind on our lessons. And you two ought to be following my example, honestly, you know this is only the first week and it's going to get so much more difficult -"

Ron spun to face her. "The country's on the brink of war and you're more worried about lessons than Horcruxes?"

"I'm not _more_ worried about anything than the Horcruxes, Ron!"

"Obviously," Ron remarked sarcastically.

"I just think school work is important, too, and if you two haven't _noticed -"_

"If you two are done bickering," Harry interrupted, shooting them both withering looks. Hermione and Ron shared a contemptuous glance.

"Anyway, I don't think it's necessarily all Malfoy's doing," Hermione answered. "I don't think he would have known anything about the Horcruxes to just go up to Dumbledore and ask to be involved. I think it's more likely Dumbledore made that call on his own."

Harry paced some more, looking thoughtful.

"But maybe…" Ron said slowly. "Maybe Lucius _did_ know about the Horcruxes. He's the one who passed the diary to Ginny before second year. What if Lucius knows about them, and he's told Draco, and all of this is really an elaborate plan to stop us getting to them all?"

"No, I don't think that's right." Harry shook his head. "Dumbledore said that Voldemort never had a real friend and never wanted one, and that anyone who thinks they're in Voldemort's confidence is deluded. Even his followers. I doubt if Lucius ever knew what the diary really was because Voldemort would never have trusted him with the information."

Hermione nodded earnestly. "I agree. Surely, if Lucius knew that Voldemort had made them, all he would have to do is leave Grimmauld Place and go tell him. Then Voldemort could protect his own Horcruxes. He wouldn't use Lucius and a teenage boy to protect his immortality for him. And Lucius would also have to know that we were looking for them in the first place."

"Which Draco could have told him," Ron pointed out, throwing a rock with such force that it sank promptly, without skipping at all.

"To say _that's_ a long shot would be the understatement of the century," Hermione said, rolling her eyes.

"Really?" Ron countered. "Is it _really_ a long shot, Hermione? If Dumbledore told Draco about the Horcruxes while we were all still at Grimmauld Place, what would have stopped the treacherous little prat from hopping over to the next room and telling dear old daddy everything?"

"Because we would _know,_ Ronald!" Hermione argued furiously. "It's just not _logical._ If Lucius had that information, he'd _Apparate_ right off the front step and go straight back to them, because he'd have what he needed to get back in Voldemort's good graces! And with that being said, Harry, I think whatever idea you've got about using Lucius to get us closer to any Horcruxes is horrible. Even if Draco _has_ changed, it's too much to hope for that Lucius has as well."

"Draco hasn't changed, Hermione," Harry said firmly.

"I didn't say he had, Harry, I said ' _even if he has_ ,'" she responded. "...which he hasn't."

"All I'm saying is, don't go and start defending him," Harry warned. "Just because he's supposedly in the Order, doesn't mean he's not the same arsehole he's always been."

"I would appreciate it if you'd stop trying to imply that I'm on Malfoy's side, because I'm not," Hermione said patiently. "On _any_ scale. If anyone knows that Draco Malfoy is still the greatest bigot in this entire school, it's me. I'm the one that has to live with him."

"How's that going, anyway, Hermione?" Ron asked, and Hermione wondered privately if he had actually gained some tact and was trying to steer the conversation away from disaster.

"It hasn't been as bad as you'd expect, actually," Hermione lied. She could only imagine how her two best friends would react if they knew what had really transpired in the common room two evenings in a row. "It's just rather… er, uncomfortable, with him being so close all the time. He's almost always there, seeing as he hasn't got any friends these days."

"He seemed pretty matey with Tracey Davis and Blaise Zabini during lessons," Harry put in.

"Well, you know why, don't you? Neither of them has any ties to Voldemort or Death Eaters, as far as we know. They're probably the only people who'll have him," said Hermione absently, picking up her Transfiguration book and opening it again.

"Most of the other Slytherins don't seem to like him much either," Ron said as he resumed his rock-skipping. "Almost no one clapped for him when Dumbledore announced he'd made Head Boy."

"I expect most of them will have heard about it from their families. We don't really know who's in league with Voldemort and who isn't, after all, and some of them aren't Death Eaters, but they're sympathetic to his… cause," Hermione said, eyes cast down to the book, searching through the paragraphs for the spot where she'd left off.

"What about Parkinson and Nott?" Harry asked. "Dumbledore said Malfoy's in danger because they're Death Eaters now. But really, it's the school that's in more danger, isn't it? I doubt that their only job is to get back at Malfoy. They're probably planning some way for the Death Eaters to get back into the castle again."

Ron snorted. "Then we shouldn't be worried at all if _they're_ the ones trying to plan something. Neither of them is exactly brilliant."

"Actually, Pansy's always got decent grades from what I can tell," Hermione said. "And Theodore Nott might be quiet, but I don't get the impression that he's stupid at all."

"Yea, well, neither of them are in NEWT Potions."

"Ronald, Nott _is_ in our Potions class."

" _What_?" Ron and Harry said together, looking at her disbelievingly.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Six years later and you two _still_ don't use your eyes," she said scathingly. "He was sitting in the back next to Michael Corner. That's _exactly_ why Theodore Nott is dangerous. He's clever, and he goes unnoticed the majority of the time. And besides, Pansy might not be skilled enough at Potions to have gotten an OWL, but both of them are in NEWT Transfiguration, and that subject is just as difficult."

"I vote we just let the two of them off Malfoy," Ron suggested. "Problem solved."

"We can't, Ron," Hermione said. "If anything, we should be trying to protect him. If Pansy or Nott gets to him, it'll mean trouble."

" _Protect_ him?" Harry shouted. "You're touched, Hermione, if you think I'm going to try and protect his sorry arse."

"Malfoy can go walk off the edge of a _cliff_ for all I care, Harry, but say one of them gets a hold of Malfoy and tortures him for information?" Hermione fired back, temper rising. "Then Voldemort will know about the Horcruxes for sure, and then what? He'll hide them all, make more of them, and we'll never have a hope of being able to kill him!"

Harry kicked at the ground, dirt and grass exploding from the earth as he did. "None of this would even be an issue if Dumbledore hadn't told him!"

Above them, the sky was steadily darkening, transforming quickly into brilliant reds and oranges, and then cooling into a deep purple as the sun began to dip into the mountains. Hermione gave a sigh of frustration and closed the book resignedly, knowing that between dinner and their meeting in Dumbledore's office, there would be no time to study for the rest of the evening.

"We should go," she said. "Curfew's about to start. It'll be dinner in a moment, anyway."

To her surprise, Ron rushed forward, closing the distance between them with his arm stretched toward her. "Here, let me help you," he said, and Hermione allowed him to pull her to her feet. Once she was upright, she brushed a few stray blades of grass from the seat of her robes.

"Thank you, Ron." She smiled, and Ron grinned shyly down at her.

Hermione craned her head around Ron's shoulder to see whether Harry was ready to head back to the school, but when she saw him, her smile fell.

Harry did not turn immediately away from the lake to follow, but stood there for a moment, looking out at the squid as it floated languorously along the surface.

"Malfoy," Harry muttered, and Hermione wasn't sure if he was speaking to them, or to himself. "I just still can't believe it. I don't know what in God's name Dumbledore's thinking of."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a look of concern, and then she took a few steps toward her best friend until she was level with him. He turned to face her, his glasses flashing red in the last reflected rays of the dying sun.

"I don't either, Harry," she conceded. "But there's nothing any of us can do to reverse it. We just have to… to deal with it the best way we know how. Dumbledore's reasons may not be clear right at this moment, but we ought to trust that he knows what he's doing. Even if it means we have to deal with Malfoy."

Harry said nothing. He and Hermione stayed like that for a long moment, just looking at one another, unspoken words passing between them in the silence. Questions about fear, about the future, about whether they would survive this war at all hung in the space that separated them, questions that did not need to be asked out loud because it was all either of them ever thought about.

"Right," Harry said at last. "We'd better be off, then."

And if Hermione hadn't been so caught up in the moment she had been sharing with Harry, she might have noticed the deep scowl on Ron's face before they turned to trudge back up to the castle.

.

* * *

.

When the three of them entered Dumbledore's office after dinner, Malfoy was already there, looking sour as he leaned in one of the chairs. His usually well-kept hair was ruffled slightly, as though he had been running his hands through it out of frustration.

Hermione wondered what he and the Headmaster had been discussing before they arrived to have gotten Malfoy so riled up.

"Ah, there you all are," Dumbledore said happily, getting to his feet. He was wearing robes of bright, rainforest green, patterned all through with stars. And though he looked as spry as he had ever been in his old age, Hermione could tell by the angle of his shoulders and the curve of his spine that he was trying very hard to appear healthy. It made her sad. "We shall get right to it, then, as you all have lessons in the morning and these memories are quite long when they're viewed all in a row."

He led them over to what appeared to be a wardrobe, but when the doors swung open, the only item occupying it was a white stone basin, decorated elaborately with runes that Hermione did not recognize. It hardly looked large enough to accommodate two heads, let alone four. Dumbledore extracted it and placed it on a table, which the four students then approached eagerly.

Within the basin's silvery depths, Hermione thought she saw the face of a young and very pretty little girl swim across the surface before fading to the other side. Following her, a handsome, blond boy came into view and then he, too, vanished. Hermione was curious about who these people were, and why they were so important to Dumbledore that they were floating at the surface of his Pensieve as though the aged wizard had very recently been to visit them.

"I trust you three know what this is?" Dumbledore inquired, waving his hand in a gesture toward the Pensieve. Ron and Hermione nodded.

"I've never actually used one," Hermione admitted as she took a step forward, already fascinated by the artifact. "But I know how. I've read all about them."

"Neither have I," Ron said.

Malfoy scoffed. "Because your family can't afford one, I'm sure."

Hermione glared. "His family is rich in plenty of other ways, Malfoy, ways that your family wouldn't know anything about."

"That's hardly an insult coming from _you,_ " he retorted, grinning. "What with your heritage and all."

"Keep your mouth shut, Malfoy," Harry warned, his fist clenched and his face taut with restraint.

"I shall add the memories in the order that they are to be viewed. Chronologically, of course," Dumbledore explained peacefully, as though there was no argument going on among the students in his office. Hermione looked back to the Pensieve and saw that Dumbledore had lined up several small vials and was adding them, one by one, to the basin, where the contents then swirled tempestuously before settling down. "Mister Malfoy, I assume you have used a Pensieve in the past?"

"Yes, sir," the blond nodded.

"Then I shall leave it to you to show Miss Granger and Mister Weasley how it's done. Harry, if you will please escort me to Professor Snape's office, there is something of importance we need to collect."

Harry gave Malfoy a drawn-out stare but, after a moment, he nodded. "Yes, sir."

Dumbledore gave one of his relaxed sort of smiles, and then made to leave the office, Harry following in his wake. "I shall lock the door. Harry and I will likely have returned before the memories are through."

And with that, Dumbledore and Harry disappeared through the doors, and Hermione could hear the audible click of the lock as it fastened magically behind them.

Ron and Hermione turned to look across the table at Malfoy, whose lip was curled up in disgust. "It's not large enough for the three of us," he remarked.

"Well, you're just going to have to suffer then, aren't you?" Hermione responded haughtily.

"Not bloody likely, who knows what's crawling around in that hair of yours?"

"Feel free to go, then, Malfoy," Ron said flatly, gesturing toward the door.

Malfoy grumbled but didn't move.

"Right, well," Hermione said briskly. "I suppose we just, er, stick our heads in."

And so they did, the three of them, with Malfoy muttering something Hermione suspected was distinctly rude. He hesitated but, eventually, they had all dipped into the Pensieve, their heads touching one another's as colors and pictures raced around them.

First, Hermione was falling, falling, falling, and she felt a rush of vertigo before she landed on her feet in another time, another place.

.

* * *

.

They had witnessed all of it, from Bob Ogden's trip to the Gaunt's shack, to the Muggle orphanage where Tom had lived before Hogwarts, to Riddle's confrontation with Morfin, to Hepzibah Smith and her treasures, to Dumbledore's conversation with Tom when he came to ask the Headmaster for a teaching position at Hogwarts; they saw Slughorn's altered memory, and then the real one. All the while Ron, Hermione and Malfoy had watched in stunned silence as the surreal experience engulfed them.

Hermione hated Voldemort even more after seeing the memories, hated his cruelty and his determination to obtain immortality, hated the murderous look in his eyes and the cunning charm with which he so easily manipulated those around him. And yet, she could not help but pity the handsome young boy, so bright and intelligent, with so much raw potential, who had transformed into the beginning stages of a physical monster by the time he was twenty-eight. Her heart could not help but mourn the world's loss of a person who could have done so much good, but who had gone so very wrong, in the absolute worst way a wizard could go wrong. She grieved for Merope, and for Tom Riddle Sr.'s parents, who had died simply because their Muggle son had rejected Voldemort's mother, and who had really done nothing to deserve their own deaths. She even grieved for Morfin, hateful towards Muggles though he was, for his life-sentence in Azkaban, where he wasted away, perhaps not wholly innocent, but certainly not guilty of the crimes for which he was imprisoned. And she mourned for Hokey the House-elf, so remorseful for an accidental murder she thought she had committed, and who had suffered for it.

Hermione knew roughly what the memories entailed because Harry had told Ron and her everything. But to actually be present, to witness it first hand, had made it so much more real. She had watched the earliest years of Lord Voldemort's life, and many of these memories were no doubt some of the most defining moments in his youth… of the most powerful Dark wizard of all time's youth.

Part of her wanted to be sick, but another, much larger part just wanted revenge in the name of all the families and lives and childhoods Voldemort had destroyed.

When the memories had come and gone, Hermione, Ron, and Malfoy all felt their feet leave the ground, and then they were rising, rising, rising, until they were back in their own world, back in the Headmaster's office. And as soon as they had landed in present times, the three of them pulled their heads out of the Pensieve and looked at one another in mute shock of what they had just seen.

"Blimey," Ron said hoarsely.

Malfoy had stormed over to the window, his head bowed. Hermione fixed her eyes on him, confused.

"Malfoy… I know it's, er, quite a lot to take in, but there's really no need -"

And Draco whipped around to face her. "He's a fucking _half-blood!"_ he hissed disdainfully. "The sodding maniac is a fucking _half-blood_ , and he's been preaching to everyone about being _pure,_ and _superior._ The fucking wanker's not even a pureblood!"

Ron was looking on with his mouth slightly open, as though not sure exactly how to respond to Malfoy's outburst.

Hermione squared her shoulders. "Yes, well, it sort of makes you wonder, doesn't it, Malfoy?" She asked him rhetorically. "It rather makes you question the entire basis of his cause to begin with, right?"

"I didn't say that Muggles aren't inferior, Granger," Malfoy shot back, clearly catching her meaning and looking quite deranged. "I said that the nutter has no right to be trying to lead a bloody revolution when he's got a Muggle father!"

At that moment, the door swung open and in came Dumbledore and Harry. Harry rushed into the room, obviously having heard Malfoy yelling, and was looking at each of them in quick succession.

"What's happening?" Harry's voice was tight.

"Oh, nothing," Hermione said loftily. "Malfoy's just having an identity crisis."

Ron snickered, and Hermione flashed him a knowing smile.

"Figured out Voldemort's a half-blood, have you?" Harry asked Malfoy, his bottle-green eyes fixed on the blond wizard with a rather mischievous glint.

"I'm not having an _identity crisis_ , Granger," Malfoy defended. "I know what I am! And you know what _you_ are. At least Voldemort inherited his magic legitimately: _he_ had a witch for a mother. _You_ , on the other hand, are still an abomination."

"She's twice the witch you'll ever be!" Ron yelled angrily, taking one threatening step toward Malfoy.

"Well, seeing as I'm not a witch, Weaselbee, I fail to see how that statement applies."

Ron flushed a deep red and then, suddenly, his wand was drawn, but Harry moved quickly over to him, grabbing his wand arm and directing it to the floor. "Not the time or the place, Ron," Harry hushed him.

Hermione looked anxiously between the Headmaster and students. He wasn't doing anything. Why wasn't he doing anything?

"What were you going to do, curse me in front of the Headmaster?" Malfoy asked condescendingly.

"Oh, I wasn't planning on cursing you. I was going to transfigure you into a ferret," Ron answered scornfully.

"In that case, I owe thanks to Potter for saving my life! You can't even transfigure a hand into a hoof, let alone a human into a ferret! I'd have been killed by _your_ shoddy spellwork for certain."

It was then that Hermione noticed the silver chain gleaming in Dumbledore's hand.

"Professor," she said slowly. "Is that…"

"The fake Horcrux?" Dumbledore finished for her, regarding Malfoy with a rather melancholy expression, and it was then that Hermione realized why the Headmaster did not intervene: he had higher standards set for Malfoy. This was nothing like the behavior he expected of the boy. "Yes. I was merely waiting for Mister Malfoy and Mister Weasley to get through with their... lovely... conversation."

Hermione turned and glared at the offending wizards, who both seemed to falter a bit and quiet down. Dumbledore apparently took their silence to mean that they were finished, for he crossed the room, conjured two additional chairs at the front of his desk, and then took his own seat. The rest of them followed.

As Dumbledore placed the locket on the desk that separated teacher and pupil, the weight of the artifact seemed to fall on the room like a blanket. Here was the locket that Harry and Dumbledore had risked their lives to attain, the locket for which Dumbledore had nearly died, the locket that wasn't even a real Horcrux but a copy of one, placed there by a wizard whom they knew only by the initials _R.A.B_.

"Mister Malfoy, I have already explained to you a few things about this particular Horcrux. Or, rather, what we thought was a Horcrux. I have already explained to you where Harry and I went on the night you and the Death Eaters met us on the Astronomy Tower."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all turned to look at Malfoy, and Hermione had half-expected him to be staring down at his shoes. But to his credit, he'd had the courage to look Dumbledore in the eye.

"Harry and I traveled to a seaside cave which Tom Riddle often visited with some other children from the Muggle orphanage, his home for the first eleven years of his life," Dumbledore went on. "Hidden inside the cave was a lake, in the middle of which was a stone basin. This is where we found the locket, at last… but, n order for any person to obtain the locket, a terribly vile potion had to be consumed. Once the potion was entirely gone, the locket could be removed. It was… a most terrifying and excruciating experience."

Malfoy crossed his arms and had the decency to look ashamed as Dumbledore told the story.

"Once Harry and I opened the locket, we discovered this note." Dumbledore then extracted from the fake heirloom a small slip of parchment and passed it across the desk to Malfoy.

The Slytherin did not read aloud. It wasn't as if he had really needed to in the first place. Hermione knew it by heart, down the very letter, for they had spent hours agonizing over it for the past two months. Sweltering summer days spent cooped up at Grimmauld Place, taking apart the note bit, by bit, looking for anything; a clue, a lead, an idea.

" _To the Dark Lord - I know I will be dead long before you read this, but I want you to know that it was I who discovered your secret. I have stolen the real Horcrux and intend to destroy it as soon as I can. I face death in the hope that when you meet your match, you will be mortal once more. R.A.B._ "

Dumbledore spoke again. "Of course, we have no way of knowing whether the real Horcrux was destroyed. But we must be sure, or else we risk -"

"Professor, sir, I'm sorry to interrupt," Malfoy said, a note of curiosity marking his tone. "But, does R.A.B… does it stand for 'Regulus Arcturus Black?'"

There was an intense silence in the room.

Malfoy's eyes flicked back and forth between them all. "Why are you lot looking at me like that?" he asked, sounding suddenly unsure of himself.

It was Dumbledore who answered. "Mister Malfoy, none of us had any idea of who the author of the note might have been. What made you think of Regulus?"

Malfoy shrugged. "Been living in his room all summer, haven't I? It was written on the door."

Dumbledore rose from his desk abruptly. "Mister Malfoy, Mister Weasley, and Miss Granger, you all shall return to your dorms. Harry, will you accompany me to Grimmauld Place?"

Harry leaped up from his seat, and at the same time, Ron, Hermione, and Malfoy stood to leave as well, understanding themselves to be dismissed.

As they made their way to the door, Dumbledore said, "Miss Granger, Mister Weasley, please do not make the mistake of waiting up. We may not be back this evening."

Hermione hesitated for a moment at the door, turning back to look at Harry as he stood next to their Headmaster, silent but determined. "Be careful," she pled, and it was barely more than a whisper.

She was vaguely aware of a strong hand pulling her away from the threshold and she looked up to see Ron. "C'mon, Hermione," he was saying, urging her along. With a last parting glance at Harry, who nodded to her once as if to say _I will,_ Hermione allowed Ron to take her arm and lead her down the stairs and knew that Harry's promise was a lie.

.

* * *

.

"I've got to say, Granger, I always figured you'd wind up with Potter, not Weasley," Malfoy said as he climbed into the portrait hole after her.

"I'm not with either Harry _or_ Ron," Hermione replied, stomping up the stairs until their common room came into view.

Malfoy snorted. "Please, Granger, it's quite obvious, you know. How he's always jumping to defend your honor… leading you by the elbow down the stairs. You sit next to each other in the Great Hall."

"You sit next to Zabini during meals. Does that mean he's _your_ boyfriend?"

"All I'm saying is, you won't exactly be leading a life of luxury when you two get married," he said, smirking quite irritatingly. "But I guess his house will be a step up from your Muggle parents' house, won't it? From a mud hut to a shack. Not bad, Granger."

"Still sore that your beloved leader is of mixed heritage, Malfoy?"

"He's _not_ my leader."

"As I recall, it was Voldemort's pureblood mother who lived in a seedy shack and his Muggle father who was wealthy, Malfoy. Or did your prejudices allow you to conveniently overlook that fact?"

"Defending the Muggles, how predictable."

Hermione had already been halfway up the stairs leading to her dorm, but his taunt had hit its mark. Furious, Hermione spun around, descended the stairs, and approached him.

"Actually, yes, that's exactly what I'm doing. That's exactly what the Order _does,_ Malfoy, we defend the Muggles. And the _Mudbloods._ And every other man, woman, and child who is being threatened by Voldemort's New World Order!" She was hardly a foot away from him. "We defend them from people like _you._ "

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "Just because I don't believe in Dumbledore's illusion of equality doesn't mean I'm not fighting against Voldemort."

"How can you even say that?" Hermione demanded. "How can you pretend to be one of us when you are _clearly_ exactly the same as every Death Eater who follows Voldemort's orders? You haven't made even one single change, Malfoy, except when it comes to who you want to protect you."

"It's not about being protected!"

"Oh, really? Then what is it about, Malfoy? Please, enlighten me. I'd _love_ to know your reasoning."

"It's none of your damn _business_ what my reasoning is! If I wasn't on your side, would I have been there to watch the memories? Would I have suggested that R.A.B. might be Regulus Black? If I wasn't trying to help, wouldn't I have kept that information to myself?"

He was yelling now, his gray eyes no longer flat but icy and menacing, full of emotion that Hermione could not read.

"Stop acting as though you've done _so_ much for us! Why don't you just bugger off and mind your own affairs? This has nothing to do with you!"

"It has everything to do with me!" Malfoy argued, his face bent close to hers.

"It doesn't!"

"I HAVE FAMILY TO PROTECT, TOO!" There was a dangerous force behind his words made Hermione take a step back. She hadn't expected it.

Malfoy had dueled with her, fought with her, teased and taunted her, but he had never shouted at her like he was doing now. In fact, Hermione didn't think she had ever seen him show so much emotion in the entire six years she had known him.

He took another step toward her, following her unrelentingly.

"You think you're the only one who's got stakes in this fucking game, Granger? Or didn't you realize that my parents are hiding at Grimmauld Place because the Dark Lord will _kill them_ if he finds them? You must think this is all a bloody _joke_ for me, the way you lot act!"

Hermione took another backward stride, but Malfoy would not allow her to put any space between them. "I - I didn't realize -" she stammered just as her shoulders hit the banister.

"Of course, you didn't _realize,_ Granger!" he barked but, thankfully, did not come any nearer to her once she had nowhere else to go. He had given her more than a foot of space to separate them, but she felt trapped all the same, for his piercing gaze seemed to hold her in place. "You didn't _realize_ because you think you're so high and mighty, that no one like me could _possibly_ care about his family, no one like me could ever _love_ anyone enough to fight for them!"

"Malfoy, I -"

"SHUT UP! All you bloody Gryffindors think you're the ones who've got all the courage, like you're the _only_ ones who know how to do the _right thing._ You call yourselves the defenders of the weak? You are _selfish,_ Hermione Granger. Open your fucking eyes. You are not the only person in this God damned war!"

"I'm sorry!" Hermione rushed out, and Malfoy seemed taken aback. He straightened, no longer leaning toward her, his chin tilted and his shoulders set back in their usual regal posture. He had not been close enough for Hermione to feel that her personal space had been truly violated, but once he had let off, she felt as though she could breathe again. She drew in a relieved lungful of air. "I'm sorry, Malfoy. I had no idea. I shouldn't have… I shouldn't have said what I said. I'm sorry."

Malfoy snorted, and for a moment, it looked as if he was going to resume his tirade. But he didn't. His eyes drifted contemptuously down to her feet and back up to her eyes again.

"Stupid little Mudblood," he said, and his voice was full of hate as he turned away from her and ascended the stairs.


	9. Obliviate

**Thanks to all my truly lovely reviewers. You guys really keep me going, and a special thanks to those who've given me really lengthy ones. I really enjoy your input and it means everything to me that you would put so much thought into what's happening.**

* * *

Draco was fuming, covering the space of the narrow dormitory with long strides, his hair in disarray from having run his hands through it repeatedly in frustration. He wondered how often he was going to be reduced to _this_ , pacing about his room because Hermione Granger had gotten the better of him. This was the third night in a row he had found himself in this exact position.

But tonight, it had been significantly worse.

He'd allowed his emotions to rule him, had let _her_ goad him into an explosive reaction. He was more than angry: he was positively livid, and not only because of Granger. He was furious with himself for allowing her to provoke him to the point where he had lost control. And in his outrage, he had revealed too much.

He had no problem _scaring_ her. She had looked terrified, and it was one of the few things Draco had allowed himself to appreciate in the privacy of his room. The way she had stepped away from him after his outburst, the way she continued to withdraw from him as he followed her, and the alarmed look in her eye when his face was hardly a foot away from her own. How her bottom lip had trembled ever so slightly, and the way her expression was just so open and readable and vulnerable to his attacks.

He thought it may, in fact, have been the very first time Granger had ever appeared to be _frightened_ of him in all the years he'd known her.

He could frustrate her, make her insult him, and make her attack him, but Draco had never been able to make Hermione Granger fear him.

And now, he had done just that. He had made the stubborn, _brave_ Gryffindor girl afraid of him.

It made him unreasonably happy and Draco was a sadist.

But exhilarating though it was, Draco could not make himself feel that the accomplishment was worth what it cost. The triumph of intimidating her seemed trivial in comparison to the fact that he had effectively handed her a weapon to use against him.

In retrospect, he didn't know what had possessed him to reveal those things about himself.

It was completely contrary to the cool and aloof persona he had always tried very hard to maintain. Draco had learned it from his father, and if there was anything at all to be retained from growing up under the hand of Lucius Malfoy, it was that keeping a calculated distance from other people meant that they could never, ever hurt you.

If Draco never exposed himself to a person, he could never be attacked where he was weak. And one of his weakness was, without a doubt, his parents. Now that Granger knew that, there was no way he would be able to stop her from using it to her advantage.

He was at a complete loss as to how to handle it.

Her sputtering apology had been satisfying, however. It had felt good to finally be able to make her back down without having to hex her, disarm her, or use any physical violence whatsoever. There was something distinctly rewarding about being able to subdue her using words alone. Of course, there was always the possibility that she had only been trying to appease him, or that he had merely daunted her into admitting what he wanted to hear, but Draco didn't think that was the case.

Not this time.

He could read it in her eyes. The eyes which were always so transparent, so unguarded, and which had looked up at him in shock, rich with contrition and anxiety and surrender. It had been evident in the subtle quiver of her jawline and the falter of her shoulders, the rift in her proud demeanor and the uncertainty of her backward steps.

How it must have pained her to have to acquiesce, Draco mused, and the pleasant thought slowed his furious pacing.

He decided that he was calm enough now to rest and traveled to his bed, where he sat down to kick off his shoes, shrug off his Hogwarts robes, and remove his tie. More comfortable, he allowed his body to fall back on the four-poster bed, his mind weary from a mentally taxing day and the sleepless night that had preceded it.

The first two days of lessons had been difficult enough where schoolwork was concerned, and the added pressure coming from so many directions had compounded his stress in a way that was bearing down heavily. The memories, the meetings with Snape and Dumbledore, his constant confrontations with Granger, and not to mention the threat of Pansy and Theo, which he had still had not been able to properly gauge. The presence of Potter and Weasley was proving to be a profound nuisance, and he knew also that his Head Boy duties were going to grow steadily in their inconvenience.

 _But my parents are safe,_ he assured himself, pulling in a deep breath as he dragged both hands down his face. Everything would be worth it if the three of them made it out of this war alive, he knew, and it was enough to motivate him.

Deciding not to shower until the morning, Draco slipped out of his clothes and collapsed back onto his bed, feeling thoroughly drained. Sleep overtook him easily. He faded quickly away and was finally able to banish thoughts of Granger from his mind as he fell into unconsciousness.

.

* * *

.

In the morning, Draco had finally caught up with her in the corridor on his way to Arithmancy. He had still been getting dressed when he heard her bedroom door, then the portrait, close behind her and realized that he had missed his chance. But when he saw her leave the Great Hall after breakfast, Draco had followed and waited for her brainless companion, Weasley, to go his separate way before approaching her.

"Granger," he called, watching her give a little start and then turn to face him, hand on her wand as though she were waiting for an attack. Who had she been expecting that she had been so on edge?

"Oh. Malfoy," she acknowledged, then continued walking.

"Rather jumpy this morning, aren't you?" he drawled. "Not scared, I hope."

"Not scared of _you,_ " she said pointedly.

"That's hardly the impression you gave me last night when you were backed against the stairway," he countered with an arrogant smirk as he walked beside her.

Granger did not look at him as she tilted her chin up. "You were invading my personal space, that's all."

"Spare me your pathetic attempts to defend your pride, Granger."

"What do you _want,_ Malfoy? Haven't you got some unfortunate first year to bully somewhere?"

She was climbing the stairs that would lead to the Arithmancy corridor now, her satchel bumping against her thigh as she went. It looked heavy.

"Headed to the same class as you, actually, or did you forget we're taking the same subjects?"

Draco thought he saw the edge of her lip curl slightly. "I had hoped you'd drop Arithmancy."

"Rotten luck for you then. Why on Earth have you got so many textbooks in that bag, Granger? Even you can't be taking that many lessons."

"It's just extra reading," she replied simply. " _Not_ that it's any of your business."

"Extra reading you have to carry with you _all day?_ Come off it, Granger."

She sighed in response. "Malfoy, I've already asked you what it is you want. If there's nothing, can you just please leave me alone? You're annoying me."

"As it happens, annoying you is one of my favorite hobbies, so no, I don't think I will, thanks."

The girl rolled her eyes. "Your parents must be so glad to be rid of you during the school year," she jabbed.

Suddenly very irritated, he reached out and grabbed her shoulder, and the action took her enough by surprise that she had no time to jerk away from him.

Draco glared at her as he forcefully turned her body to face him.

"Didn't we already have this conversation a few times already? You know, when I told you not mention my parents? If I'm remembering correctly, you ended up flat on the ground on both occasions," he threatened.

Granger pushed hard against his chest with both hands.

"Back off, Malfoy," she warned, and Draco staggered a few paces in reverse.

He was about to draw his wand and jinx the dumb broad, but when Ernie Macmillan and Terry Boot rounded the corner, Draco thought better of it. Both of the other students nodded to Granger and greeted her affably, neither of them seeming to realize that trouble had been quickly brewing between the Head Boy and Girl.

Instead, he reached into his bag and then shoved a roll of parchment at her, which she snatched out of his hand angrily. When she seemed to have finished glowering at him, she looked down to read it.

And then, to his surprise, turned her eyes back up to him with an expression of bewilderment.

"A rota?" she asked. "I didn't think you'd bother to make a schedule for the Prefect's rounds."

He snorted. "Head Boy, aren't I? As if I'd give you the opportunity to go snitch to Dumbledore that I haven't been fulfilling my duties."

"I'm just… well, I've already done the rota," she told him and then looked back down to the parchment. She appeared to be observing it closely.

"I don't _care_ if you've already done it, Granger, this is the schedule we're using,"

She didn't respond for a moment, evidently too occupied with reading the rota to speak. "Yours works out much better, though," she said aloud, but the thoughtful quality of her tone made him wonder if she was talking to herself. "You paired up the teams better than I did. We'll go on and use yours, then."

And she handed it back to him as though that settled the matter.

"I _know_ we're using it, Granger, I've just told you that."

"Yes, Malfoy, and I've just said I agree," Granger said slowly, as though trying very hard to make him understand.

Draco frowned. "We're not using my rota because we _agreed_ to it, we're using it because I _said_ we are."

Granger squared her shoulders, looking affronted. "I'm a Head, too, you know, or weren't you aware that we're meant to be doing this job as a _team_?"

"Yea, Head _Girl,"_ he said condescendingly.

"What are you implying, Malfoy? That because you're Head Boy, that makes your opinion heavier than mine?"

" _Obviously,_ Granger."

Draco watched as an angry flush came across her cheeks, and her light brown eyes flashed dangerously. It was actually quite an entertaining transformation to behold.

"That's - that's completely preposterous!" she said indignantly. "If you think because you're a man you're somehow _superior_ -"

"Well, actually, Granger, it was you who made me realize, the other night after I'd twisted your arm, that males are obviously _naturally_ superior to women -" Draco was grinning mischievously.

"You're not!" she argued, her voice rising.

"If that were the case, you wouldn't have asked for special treatment because you're a girl, would you?" he snickered. "Only doing as you requested, after all. I think my mother would be proud."

Smirking, Draco backed away from the bushy-haired witch as she gaped openly at him and, after a few seconds spent relishing his victory, he turned and sauntered into the Arithmancy classroom.

.

* * *

.

The Prefects' meeting had taken place after dinner that same evening in a classroom on the fourth floor. When Draco first walked into the room, he saw that Granger had transfigured several tables to form one large one, and had rearranged the chairs to circle around it. Weasley was already there, sitting next to her and talking animatedly as she laughed at whatever it was he was saying. Most of the other Prefects had already arrived, including Pansy. He made a point not to look at the Slytherin girl at all as he took a seat between a fifth year Gryffindor and Ernie Macmillan.

Once all the Prefects were accounted for (and he had noticed with a smirk that the fifth and sixth year Slytherins had made a rather late entrance,) Granger opened her mouth to call attention to the meeting.

Draco cut her off.

"Right, I've come up with a rota for the rounds," he announced and noted with satisfaction that Granger looked quite offended indeed.

Draco set the schedule on top of the table and conjured as many copies of it as there were people. He then flicked his wand, and each sheet of parchment drifted to its respective owner. "The schedule starts tonight," he said, leaning back into the chair with his arms crossed.

From the corner of his eye, Draco noticed that Pansy was staring at him intently. He refused to make any eye contact with her at all.

A fifth-year Hufflepuff spoke up.

"Why haven't we been scheduled with anyone who's in our own Houses?" the girl asked petulantly, the rota clutched in her hand as she addressed Granger.

Suppressing a grin, Draco answered, "Because if you aren't paired with your friends, you'll be less likely to slack off and cause problems."

The Hufflepuff girl turned her head slowly over to Draco, looking confused. Clearly, she was wondering why the Head Boy had answered when she had not been speaking to him at all.

"But we're _Prefects,"_ Astoria Greengrass remarked from her own chair. "We're meant to be trustworthy enough to behave properly, aren't we?"

Draco's gaze fell upon Daphne's little sister, and he noticed abruptly that she had become extremely pretty over the summer. He could hardly be surprised, as that same phenomenon tended to happen between the fourth and fifth years for girls, and Daphne had gone through the same transformation at the same time. But Draco would not be able to indulge in distractions, however attractive they were.

He regretted the fact that he would have neither the time nor the ability to pursue her.

"I find that Prefects are often the ones who have no respect for the rules," Draco said, and to make his point quite clear, he fixed Weasley and Granger with a steady stare. "A lot of them seem to think they're above punishment."

The Weasel looked immediately peeved at the insinuation, but Draco's veiled jab had earned little more than the twitch of an eyebrow from Granger. It was very incongruous, the way he was able to elicit such strong reactions from her in private. With others present, he hardly got one at all. It was usually just short replies and clipped phrases.

Now, the Gryffindor girl merely tilted her head slightly to one side and nodded. "Malfoy's right, actually. Prefects tend to use their power to an unfair advantage," Hermione agreed, her eyes not leaving Draco's for a moment.

"For instance, to get out of trouble when they do something so stupid that any other student would've been expelled for it."

"Or to _bully_ other students and try to intimidate them -"

" - form illegal Defense groups -"

"- attack people in the hallways -" Granger scowled.

Pansy Parkinson cleared her throat. "Is this meeting going to be much longer?" she asked testily. "Aren't we just here to get the rota?"

Draco could feel Pansy's intense glare as she willed him to look at her. But he didn't. He turned to Granger instead, whose skin had taken on a barely-noticeable blush, as though she was embarrassed to have been competing with the Head Boy with passive-aggressive insults.

"Right," Granger said, and Draco was surprised that the witch had passed up a fine opportunity to put Pansy in her place. "We only wanted to pass out the rota and remind every one of the rules. Just because you are Prefects doesn't give you an excuse to act out of line. In fact, you lot are supposed to be setting examples for other students, especially the younger ones. Mind how you behave, because they'll all be looking up to you to show them what to do."

It was then that Draco noticed the red-haired idiot sitting beside the Head Girl. He was watching Granger with a sort of reverence, his lips curved up into a fond half-smile as though he was in awe of her. Draco could not imagine why Weasley seemed to be so head-over-heels for the bushy-haired Mudblood, even if she was actually sort of pretty now. More than that, though, he could not figure out how Granger could maintain that the two of them were only friends when they were obviously shagging... and in the off-chance that they weren't, how could it be possible that she was completely oblivious to his constant fawning over her?

"So, anyhow," Granger finished awkwardly. "We'll have another meeting after dinner on October 1st, in this room. You all are dismissed."

There was a chorus of scraping chairs as the Prefects all stood to leave and a low hum of chatter as they all conversed with one another. Draco had meant to slip out before anyone had the chance to speak to him, but when he felt a gentle tug on his robes, he turned to see Astoria smiling up at him.

"Draco, I was wondering if you'd mind if I switched shifts with a few people. Quidditch practice is starting soon and it'll be so exhausting if I have rounds on the same nights." Draco could tell that her question was only an excuse to speak to him and that the move was surely a calculated one: nothing would pique his interests more than Quidditch.

Her face was pretty and alluring. He noticed her smooth skin, her white and even teeth, and her green eyes that were beautiful and quite inviting. Astoria was even more gorgeous than her older sister, and for a moment Draco was almost tempted to allow her to charm him.

But he couldn't afford it.

Instead, he gave her a well-practiced sneer. "Talk to Granger about that, Greengrass," he said coldly. "Stop bothering me."

And he snatched his robes from her grasp as he turned away, barely catching the hurt and rejection that flashed through her eyes before he left.

Draco had rounded the corner quickly and had been making for the Grand Staircase that would lead up to his dormitory when a different Slytherin girl jumped out from an alcove and into his path.

It was Pansy Parkinson, grinning sweetly at him as though they were still lovers.

Was she trying to seem pleasant? If she was, she was doing a poor job of it, for the glint in her eye was malicious and cunning. Draco held her gaze, knowing that if he continued to make eye contact, the girl would not be able to see him reach into his pocket and take hold of his wand.

"Draco," she said smoothly, giving Draco what he guessed was meant to be a winning smile and gazing up at him through heavy, dark eyelashes. "I've been waiting all week to get you alone."

"And you thought hiding behind a suit of armor was the best way to ambush me?" he inquired sarcastically, not taking his eyes off her.

He wanted desperately to look over his own shoulder to see whether Theo was going to waylay him from behind but Draco knew that if he glanced away from Pansy for even a moment, she would pull something. There was absolutely no way of knowing what tricks this woman had up her sleeve.

Pansy gave a girlish giggle. "I miss you, Draco," she simpered, sticking out her lower lip in an attempt to make herself appealing. He almost grimaced when he realized that for more than two years this exact thing had worked on him. Now it seemed disgusting and embarrassing.

Draco narrowed his eyes at her. "Three days ago you were calling me a filthy blood traitor and leaving a train compartment just because I was in it, Parkinson," he said.

"It's all just words, Draco. I didn't mean it. Not after all the years we've known each other… after everything we did together," she crooned. "Take me to your dorm, Draco."

Draco felt anger boil in his stomach. He wanted to smack her for her feeble attempt at manipulation. He wanted to tell her that he knew what she was doing, that he knew she had taken the Mark and that there was no way in hell he was going anywhere near her for the rest of his life… but he couldn't, for there was only one person at Hogwarts apart from Theo who was supposed to know that Pansy had joined the Death Eaters, and that was Snape. Draco could not be foolish enough to accuse her and risk compromising the spy's secrets.

Instead, Draco snorted and allowed his eyes to travel from her pug-face, down to her expensive shoes, and up again. "Get away from me, you ugly slag," he said disdainfully. Hatred filled Pansy's eyes and her face twisted.

"How _dare_ you insult me."

She whipped out her wand, and it was as quick as Draco had ever seen Pansy move.

Draco was a split second faster, his weapon drawn and a curse ready to disarm or dismember or disable or all three, but neither of the Slytherins was the first to cast a spell.

"Expelliarmus!" - - "Expelliarmus!"

He saw Pansy's eyes go wide and then she took a step back, her lip curling up scornfully as she looked over Draco's shoulder. He wanted to turn and look who had disarmed them but was not stupid enough to let Pansy out of his sights.

"30 points from Slytherin!" Granger shrieked, coming up to push herself between them. Weasley was right behind her, his wand trained on Pansy while Granger covered Draco with her own. " _Each!"_

"We were just having a chat, Granger," Pansy protested, looking furious.

" _Right,_ Parkinson, because everyone has friendly chats with their wands pointed at each other," Granger snapped. "You can do your detention with Madam Pomfrey. _For the next five evenings."_ The Head Girl rounded on Draco. "And _you._ Absolutely despicable, after all that rubbish about Prefects using their status to break the rules, here's the bloody Head Boy dueling another student in the corridor! _You_ can do your detention with Professor McGonagall, for the next _seven_ evenings."

Draco scoffed indignantly. "You can't give me detention, Mudblood, I'm the sodding Head Boy!"

Granger raised her eyebrows. "If you feel confident enough about that, go on and talk to Dumbledore, and we'll see how _he_ feels about it. If I remember right, he's rather strict when it comes to unofficial dueling on the grounds... and that'll be another ten points for the use of derogatory language against the Head Girl."

Draco said nothing, observing her rigidly before he turned his eyes back to Pansy. Their glares met for a long moment and Draco saw that his ex-girlfriends face had gone very cold, very unreadable. It was a step-up, at least, since Pansy had always been very easily manipulated (by Draco, at least.) Now, it seemed that the woman's innate cunning had begun to physically manifest, which wasn't exactly a surprise. It was hard not to develop those particular skills when one was so often enmeshed in such dubious company as Draco knew she was now keeping.

Granger turned to face Pansy. "To the dungeons, Parkinson. Malfoy, go to your dormitory."

Weasley handed Pansy her wand, and Granger handed Draco his.

Pansy opened her mouth as if to argue but then seemed to realize that she was fighting a losing battle. She hesitated, her eyes flicking from Draco, to Granger, and then to Weasley.

" _Now!"_ Granger ordered, and finally, with a haughty sort of sniff, Pansy turned on her heel and strode down the corridor, taking the Grand Staircase in the direction of the ground floor.

For a long moment after Pansy had gone, the three of them just stood there, watching the staircase as though she would come back. When they were sure she wouldn't, Granger seemed to relax visibly, her shoulders falling as she lowered her wand from where she'd been training it on Draco's face.

"Come on," Granger said, looking weary and relieved, as though she had narrowly avoided a tremendous disaster.

Draco understood and did not question her as they all made their way toward the Grand Staircase.

"So," Draco began, and he could not help grinning as he looked first at Weasley and then at Granger.

"No detention for me, then?"

"Of course not," Granger sighed. "Thirty points to Slytherin."

"What about the other ten?" Draco asked indignantly.

"Oh, I'll be keeping those," The Head Girl said simply. "You still called me a Mudblood, after all."

And she took hold of Weasley's robes to stop him progressing any further, while Draco himself continued to walk so that no one would see the three of them ascending the Grand Staircase together.

.

* * *

.

Draco had waited in the common room for Granger to return, perusing the numerous tomes that lined the bookshelf along the staircase. A few of the titles were rather predictable textbooks he had seen before in the library, but there were many that Draco had never even heard of. The prospect intrigued him, for the extensive library in Malfoy Manor had yielded the most interesting and varied results he'd ever seen. Everything from ancient Dark spellbooks to cookbooks to classic wizarding novels could be found there, and nothing was ever the sort of thing you'd find on a shelf in Hogwarts - even the restriction section lacked some of the nefarious titles his family had collected over the years.

Draco had just selected a thin, dingy-looking book when Granger's blasted cat leaped up onto the study table, eyeing him with suspicion and distaste.

"Bugger off," barked Draco, but the creature did not move even an inch. It merely stared insolently back at him, a low sort of noise rumbling from its throat. It sounded like a cross between a growl and a hiss. "Hideous little sod."

Just then, he heard the portrait open and Granger's light footsteps as she climbed up the entryway steps. A moment later, she emerged in the doorway, and the cat, whose name he still did not know, rushed down the stairs and out of the common room. Probably going to hunt, Draco supposed.

"It took you more than half an hour to walk up here from the fourth floor, Granger," Draco observed, having turned to face her with the book he had plucked from its shelf still in hand.

"I was talking to Ron," Hermione informed him, her expression quite bland as she regarded him. "Though, I have a hard time understanding how you feel that has anything to do with you."

"Just stating a fact. You don't have to explain to the likes of me what you get up to with your boyfriend."

"He's _not_ my boyfriend, Malfoy. We're only friends."

Draco gave a derisive laugh. "Does he know that?"

The Gryffindor girl narrowed her tired looking eyes. "Of course he does. We've been friends for six years."

"Come on, Granger, why even bother hiding it? Just say you're shagging the nasty little bleeder. You'll feel better, I promise."

She blushed furiously. "I'm not - how _dare_ you -"

Realization dawned on Draco, and he could not help but smile mockingly at her. "Good Gods, Granger. How can you not _know?_ How can you not _see?_ The brightest witch in the year can't even tell when a bloke's got it for her."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Malfoy," she denied easily, making for the stairs that lead to her dormitory. "Just mind your own business. You've got quite enough to worry about without trying to make sightless observations about my personal life. Maybe you ought to remember to keep your focus. Next time we may not be there to save your sorry arse."

"I could have handled that stupid bint. She's not nearly as much of a threat as you seem to think she is."

Granger stopped. "Malfoy, you need to be more careful. If things weren't the way they are now, I would've let Pansy hex you a bit before I stepped in. But given the situation, I can't. If you keep letting yourself fall into such compromising situations -"

"Don't start acting like you're my bloody knight in shining armor, Granger," Draco interrupted. "You don't need to protect me. I can handle myself without your help."

" _Really,"_ she replied, and Draco could tell by the inflection of her voice that she was growing angrier. He was getting to her, which was good. "Because it seemed to me that Pansy might've killed you just now if she'd had the chance. Or worse than that, she'd have tried to torture you for information. You know too much now, and If you think I'm just going to let you jeopardize everything because you -"

"You think she'd Crucio me in the middle of the corridor? How stupid can you really be -"

"She's not exactly overflowing with discretion, Malfoy!"

"She's a half-rate witch with a superiority complex," Draco argued. "She wouldn't stand a chance against me -"

"She's a Death Eater! She's working for _Voldemort,_ and if you had an _ounce_ of intelligence in that empty head of yours, you'd -"

Draco advanced on her quickly, bending his face down so he could look her directly in the eye. He was inches away from her, his face screwed into a lethal grimace. "You don't know anything about me, so don't you dare presume to make judgments -"

"Get _away_ from me, Malfoy!" she demanded. "I'm so _sick_ of you trying to intimidate me!"

Granger pushed against his shoulders with as much force as she had within her thin body, but Draco had been ready. He held his ground and was unmoved when she shoved him.

"Or what, Granger? Get away from you, or _what?_ " Draco taunted, and he continued to step into her, forcing her backward with the sheer immediacy of his closeness.

One, two, three steps, and Granger went for her wand. He snatched up her wrist, but the witch was smart and quick with her movements.

"Don't _touch_ me!" she shrilled and expertly twisted her hand so that he could not get a firm grip. But soon there was nowhere else for her to go, and Draco had strength to his advantage. He took her left wrist in his hand and made a grab for her other one, this time pressing his thumb into the sensitive area that he knew she would not be able to withstand.

He was probably far rougher than he had really needed to be when he forced her against the wall, but Draco didn't care just then. He was far too angry, enjoying this far too much than what was reasonably healthy, and whatever-would-his-mother-think be damned.

"What are you going to do, Granger? What the fuck are you going to do?"

"Perhaps stop using _physical_ strength and let me get to my wand. Then we'll see just who's got the upper-hand!" She struggled against him, moving her arms wildly. Draco pinned her wrists above her head. "Get _off! Malfoy, you let me go this instant!"_

She tried to kick up toward him, but he pressed his knee between her thighs, pushing the full weight of his body against her.

"You think you can just say whatever you want," he growled. "You think you can insult me and insult my parents and just get away with it. Well, you're fucking wrong, Granger."

Having evidently realized that since she had no room to move any of her limbs, that there was no physical way to get out of his hold, she settled down a bit, her breath heavy with exertion as she drew in deep lungfuls of air.

Her chest heaved against his and Draco tried his level-best not to be aware of it.

"Alright, Malfoy, you've won," she panted. "You've had your fun, now let me go."

" _No,"_ he said. "Why should I? I am not one of your idiot friends, Granger. You can't talk to me any way you fucking want to."

"You _needed_ to hear what I said, Malfoy!"

"Is that right?" he pressed his thumb harder into the gap that separated the bones of her forearm; she writhed underneath him but did not scream.

"You ought to _know,_ Malfoy!" she shouted. "If you've got such _high stakes,_ if you care _so much_ about your family, you should _know_ that you need to be careful!"

"Don't talk about my fucking family, Granger! I did not tell you all that last night for you to use it against me!"

" _I'm not!"_ she insisted angrily. "I'm just trying to do what's right for the people I love! I am not going to let you ruin everything because you're too proud to watch your step. I am not letting a _Death Eater_ get a hold of you!"

"You need to keep to your own bloody affairs!"

"Just stop, Draco!"

And she had abruptly resumed her struggling again, arching her back off the wall, fighting furiously against him as she threw her hips from left to right.

The friction against his lap caught him completely off guard, and he was momentarily stunned by the sudden sensation.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," he warned lowly, and it was enough to catch her attention. She stopped moving and turned her eyes up to meet his, and Draco noticed that they were heavy with emotion: anger mixed with fear mixed with sadness. This close, he could see that her eyes were not nearly as plain as he had always thought they were. Actually, they were bright and flecked with gold, not the more common chocolate brown like Pansy's.

He hadn't realized she had freckles on her nose, had never seen the small, barely noticeable scars that were arrayed throughout her face. Scars from… from battle, probably. From battling alongside Harry Potter.

Her lips parted in surprise, and for a moment, Draco was unable to think of an insult to hurtle at her or a threat to menace her with.

He sneered down at her, uncomfortable with his thoughts but not ashamed enough to release her.

"I should just _Obliviate_ you," Granger whispered. "And get rid of all this awful mess. You aren't cut out for this, Malfoy. If you can't keep yourself out of trouble, then… then, you need to get lost. You need to leave, just take your family and _go_ because you aren't doing us any favors by involving yourself. You aren't doing _your family_ any favors."

Returning to reality from his traitorous thoughts, Draco snorted. "You can't do a fucking memory charm, Granger."

The Gryffindor girl stared resolutely up at him and did not respond.

"Bloody hell, Granger," he finally said, but it came out softer than he meant it to. "Who've you _Obliviated?_ "

Draco watched as her glare faded into something less hateful, less hostile... something vulnerable.

" _Who?_ " he pressed, wanting to know.

Needing to know.

She tilted her face away from his, and Draco, abruptly forgetting why he had even been pinning this girl against the wall in the first place, released her wrists and stepped back. The power-plays seemed suddenly stupid and totally pointless.

Hermione Granger turned her body away, ready to ascend the stairs that were to her immediate left, but Draco pressed his hand into the stone wall beside her head. He'd be damned if she was just going to walk away without answering him.

"Granger. Who?"

When she lifted her head to face him, there were tears in her eyes.

"My parents," she answered, her voice quavering.

They remained like that for what felt like hours to Draco but which he knew must have been less than a minute.

He nodded once, unsure of exactly how to respond or what to do. Surely there was something rude he could spit at her... but nothing came to him at that moment.

He let his arm fall away from the wall, and once she was free, Granger did not hesitate. She rushed up the stairs and away from him, her bedroom door shutting quietly behind her as she disappeared.


	10. The Locket

**Settle in, guys. It's a long one. I sort of had to rush the editing because its a dear friend of mine's birthday today and we're hosting the party. Please feel free to correct any errors for me. And as always, I do enjoy reading the reviews and I'm so sorry that I don't have the time to respond to each of them.**

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* * *

.

Harry did not return to the castle the next day, or the day after that.

By the time the first week of school was over, Hermione had begun to obsess over Harry's whereabouts. She could not ever recall a time when her best friend had been gone for so long, immersed in what Hermione had anxiously assumed was immediate danger. But maybe it was a positive sign that Harry and Dumbledore had not returned the same evening. Maybe it meant that they had found a lead and were pursuing it. Ron had steadfastly maintained that they would be fine, but Hermione wasn't so sure.

The last time Harry and Dumbledore had left the castle in search of a Horcrux, both of them had come very close to death… and the Horcrux hadn't even been _real_.

She was terrified.

To calm her nerves, Hermione spent most of her time in the library, sometimes alone and other times in the company of Ron, who seemed to tangibly resent Harry's absence: without the other boy to goof-off with, he had no other option but to study. He had tried valiantly to lure her away from her schoolwork and out onto the grounds, or even to indulge in a conversation that didn't revolve around homework and Horcruxes, but in light of the workload their professors had been heaping onto their plates, Ron was forced to resign to the fact that Hermione could not be distracted.

She had not come into contact with Malfoy since the night of the Prefect's meeting. She had seen him during lessons, of course (because the NEWT enrollment had thrown them together more often than not,) and she had glimpsed him during meals as well. But as far as meetings in their common room went, Malfoy seemed to be avoiding her as adamantly as she had been dodging him, which suited Hermione just fine.

She had no desire to look him in the eye and have to relive the same awkwardness that had followed their… well, what had it been, a fight? What do you call it, exactly, when a shouting match escalates into a person being forced against a wall, and then made to answer a deeply invasive question about her family?

Not a _duel_ , certainly, and more than just a confrontation.

 _A fight, then_ , Hermione decided. It had been a fight, and Hermione Granger and Draco Malfoy had been having far too many of them lately.

 _I wouldn't do that if I were you,_ Malfoy had said, and his words had seemed both threatening and provocative at the same time.

But, _surely_ , the pureblood heir to one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight would not deign to be attracted to _her,_ a _Mudblood_. Surely Draco Malfoy would feel that he was above such carnal passions when it came to a bushy-haired know-it-all, whose parents were Muggles and whose blood ran dirty.

If that were true, though, what had been that dangerous flash which had transformed Malfoy's cool, pale eyes into dark, thundercloud gray? What had stiffened his abdomen and turned his voice husky and made his breath catch audibly in his throat? Hermione thought it could be nothing else but desire. There was always the possibility that she was completely deluded, but she was _sure_ that she had seen lust overtake his gaze, however briefly.

But then again, it wasn't as though she had a lot of experience in that particular department.

Still, for more than two days now, she had not been able to shake the feeling of having him so close to her, with their hips flush against one another's. She'd been close enough to smell him, all spice and expensive cologne and soap. Close enough to taste, even.

"Oi! Hermione!" Ron called, snapping his fingers in front of her eyes.

It was Saturday afternoon, and they were in the library (again,) but Hermione had evidently not been paying a bit of attention, either to Ron _or_ her Ancient Runes assignment.

" _What,_ Ron?" she asked crossly, whipping her head toward him.

"Don't get all snippy, Hermione, I've said your name about ten times already," Ron said incredulously.

"What are you thinking about?"

 _Malfoy._

"Harry," Hermione lied quickly. "I'm just worried about him, wondering what's taking so long for them to get back."

She felt immediately guilty.

"I'm sure they're fine," Ron assured her, a look of understanding replacing his irritation. "McGonagall would've told us by now if something's gone wrong. Or Snape, even, slimy git that he is."

Hermione bit her lip. "Maybe, but what if they had no way of knowing? What if something _has_ gone horribly wrong, what if they went after… well, you know, and it was an even worse situation than last time? What if-"

"You're getting ahead of yourself, Hermione," Ron said reasonably. "He's with Dumbledore, and you know Dumbledore won't let anything happen to Harry, not if he can help it."

Hermione felt anxiety creep up on her, as it inevitably did when she started talking or thinking about Harry. "But what if he _can't_ help it? What if it's just too dangerous -"

"Hermione, stop," Ron said firmly, reaching across the table and taking Hermione's hand in his own. "We've just got to believe everything's fine until we know otherwise, or… or we're going to lose hope. There's nothing we can do about it from here, anyway."

Hermione looked into Ron's eyes, so amiable and open, and wondered when he had become so insightful. When had Ron started changing into someone who was so wise and gave such careful advice? And where was she, these days, that she had not taken the time to notice?

"You're right," Hermione conceded with a soft smile. "I'm being silly, aren't I?"

Ron nodded and gave her an easy, lopsided grin, and Hermione felt herself grinning back.

" _There_ you two are," came a voice from behind them just before Ginny dropped her school bag onto the table with a resounding _thud._

Ron pulled back his hand quickly, and Hermione shot him an affronted glare as his face flushed red. Ginny had noticed, however.

"Oh, stop being such an idiot, Ron," she said as she sat down. "Better Hermione than that cow, Lavender Brown. If you keep on acting like you're so humiliated to touch her in public, she'll probably _never_ go out with you."

It was Hermione's turn to blush; she cast her eyes down to her homework, lamenting the fact that her friend was so embarrassingly forward.

"That's not -" Ron sputtered. "I wasn't - totally out of line, Ginny -"

The younger Weasley rolled her eyes and changed the subject. "I don't suppose you lot have heard from Harry?"

They both shook their heads, Ron looking rather surly and Hermione not looking up from her parchment at all.

"Don't suppose you want to say where he's gone?" she tried hopefully.

"Ginny, I'm sorry, but we can't," Hermione said apologetically. "You know we can't -"

Ginny waved her hand and shrugged. "Just thought I'd try. Anyway, I'm really asking because Quidditch tryouts are meant to be starting soon. Slytherin's already finished theirs, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw are doing theirs next week -"

"Slytherin's already done theirs?" Ron interrupted, interested.

 _Ah,_ Hermione thought. _That must be why I've been able to dodge Malfoy so easily. He's been holding tryouts…_

"Yes!" Ginny said loudly, cheeks flushed with excitement the way they did when she was talking about Quidditch.

Hermione winced, hoping Madam Pince wasn't close enough to have heard Ginny and Ron's raised voices.

" _Muffliato,_ " Hermione said quietly, not eager to be run out of the library just yet. "But the first match doesn't happen until November. Why have Slytherin already done their tryouts?"

"Well, that's why everyone's so upset, isn't it?" Ginny went on. "Now Slytherin's already finished with theirs, every other House is rushing to follow. And I'll give you three guesses who's been made Slytherin Team Captain."

"Malfoy," Ron said immediately, scowling.

"And guess what else I've heard?" Ginny baited, leaning forward conspiratorially as though others could be listening through the Muffling charm. "Once Malfoy made Team Captain, his first order was to sack Crabbe and Goyle as Beaters!"

Hermione was shocked. "Did he get away with it?"

"No." Ginny shook her head. "I heard from Michael Corner, who heard from Stewart Ackerley, who heard from Astoria Greengrass during their Double Potions lesson, that Crabbe and Goyle immediately complained to Snape. And Snape couldn't just condone Malfoy kicking people off the team for no reason, could he, no matter _how_ biased he is, so Snape said they had to hold tryouts for Crabbe and Goyle's reserves. Apparently, even though he couldn't just kick them off the team, Snape said that if Crabbe and Goyle can't maintain passing marks, they won't be able to play!"

"Well," Ron said with a smile. "They won't last long, then, will they? Who else made the team?"

"Well, Malfoy's Seeker, obviously, and Blaise Zabini and Astoria Greengrass are still Chasers. The last Chaser is Harper - he used to be the reserve Seeker - and Graham Pritchard is the new Keeper. The reserve Beaters are third and fourth years, Bradley, I think, and Jackson," Ginny explained. " _But,_ according to Astoria, Theodore Nott also tried out for Keeper and didn't make the cut, even though he was by _far_ the best who tried out. Then he tried out to be a reserve Beater, but didn't make that one either."

Ron and Hermione exchanged a quick glance across the table. Evidently, Harry had not informed Ginny that Nott and Parkinson had become Death Eaters over the summer.

"Strange, isn't it?" Ginny smirked. "I guess Malfoy's really making an effort to cut ties, after all."

"That settles it, then," Ron said, redirecting the conversation. "As soon as Harry gets back, we'll hold tryouts. They won't last long, all we need is a Chaser to replace Katie Bell. Maybe we can get McGonagall to reserve us the pitch for when Harry gets back."

"I've already asked her," Ginny replied. "She said we'll have to wait for Harry before she can book the field."

"Right. Well, that makes sense, I suppose," Ron grumbled.

"I bet Dean makes Chaser," Ginny said brightly. "He's really good, isn't he, and he's already been the reserve."

"Still on about him, are you?" Ron asked hotly, and Hermione remembered suddenly that Ron had never liked Dean at all when it came to Ginny's choice in men.

"Don't be ridiculous," Hermione cut in swiftly, seeing that Ginny's face had taken on that fierce expression that normally preceded a particularly violent row with her brother. "Ginny's with Harry. She's only saying that Dean is an exceptionally good Quidditch player. Which he is."

"How do we know he's the _best_ Chaser there is in Gryffindor?" Ron countered.

"We _don't,_ Ron, but there's nothing wrong with hoping Dean comes out on top. Honestly, just because he's her ex, doesn't _mean_ -"

"Forget it, Hermione," Ginny stopped her. "There's no use explaining anything to Ron, thick as he is. I'll see you two at dinner."

And the red-haired witch gathered her bag and walked haughtily away.

Hermione fixed Ron with a withering look, but he said nothing, settling back into his chair with his arms crossed petulantly over his chest.

.

* * *

.

Hermione did not return to the library after dinner, though she had wanted to. Given that Harry had still not made an appearance, Ron would likely have followed her there to get answers for their Herbology assignment, and Hermione was eager to be rid of him. He had spent the rest of their time in the library grumbling about Dean and had become no easier to be around during supper: he'd picked several fights with Ginny, who had stormed out of the Great Hall by the end of it. After she had gone, Ron made Dean his next target. Dean, looking very bewildered, fled with Seamus and left Ron looking very angry indeed.

Quite bored of it all, Hermione bade him goodnight and trudged up the Grand Staircase toward her dormitory.

When she got there, Hermione was surprised to see that Malfoy was in the common room. His back was resting against the arm of the couch, long legs stretched in front of him, with a thin and rather dodgy-looking black book open on his lap.

She had seen so little of him in the past day or so that she stopped short in the doorway, regarding the pale wizard warily as he looked up from his reading.

"Malfoy," Hermione acknowledged curtly.

"Granger…" It sounded more like a question. Malfoy squinted at her, furrowing his brow as though he was very confused. "How did you get in here?"

Hermione blinked. "I live here, Malfoy," she answered cautiously.

"No, I mean, how did you get into the castle?" His tone was serious. "There are Muggle-Repelling enchantments… how did you make it past the wards?"

Hermione arched a delicate brow in response. "I heard about Slytherin Quidditch tryouts."

"And that's supposed to be significant to me… how?"

She gave a casual sort of shrug. "Oh, you know, I was just going to say that it was a very… calculated move, trying to kick Crabbe and Goyle off the team, refusing to let Nott play even though he was clearly the best."

"Self-preservation, Granger," he replied, closing the book and rising from the couch.

She gave a short laugh. "Is that what you're calling it?"

"What would _you_ call it?" Malfoy asked, eyes narrowing.

"I'd call it cowardice. You sure talked a big game about not needing protection, after all, only to go to such lengths to be sure that no Death Eaters' children could be on the pitch with you."

"First, you threaten to Obliviate me because I'm not careful enough, and then when I try to _be_ more careful you call it cowardice. So, which is it, Granger? What do you want?"

Hermione had nothing to say to that. Hadn't she also been to blame for their multiple confrontations turned violent in the common room, hadn't she goaded him or else taken his bait?

"Maybe you're right," she sighed finally, and then crossed the room, setting her bag down on the table before she turned to face him. "Maybe I haven't been quite fair to you."

"No, no, Granger, by all means, continue being a little ray of bloody sunshine," Malfoy urged caustically.

Hermione glared. "Are you always this gracious when accepting apologies? If you keep on like this, Malfoy, I'm simply not sure that I'll be able to hate you anymore."

"Was that an apology? Well, go on, then, I'll hear it."

Hermione began to unpack several textbooks and lay them out on the table, letting them drop heavily onto its surface. "I am… sorry, that I haven't been, er, receptive, to your help… when it comes to the Horcruxes and… er, the Order in general," she said, in what was perhaps not the clearest of voices. "I will _try_ not to be so unforgiving."

"Good," Malfoy said smugly, and then gestured down to the table. "What exactly are you doing, Granger?"

Hermione did not look up. "Preparing to study, Malfoy, what does it look like I'm doing?"

"Can't you do that in your own room?"

"My desk isn't big enough to accommodate all the books," Hermione said tersely. "And, besides, this is my common room, too, and I can do whatever I like."

She thought she could _hear_ Malfoy rolling his eyes.

"Oh, right, of course. I ought to have known that a simple _desk_ wouldn't suffice, not for the great know-it-all Mudbloo-"

Hermione slammed her Arithmancy textbook onto the table, which shook unsteadily under her force.

"You know, _you_ could have the decency to apologize to _me_ as well!" she huffed.

Malfoy raised a brow. "Apologize? To you? Whatever for?"

"How about for calling me a Mudblood, twice and three times a day?"

"Not my fault about your blood status -"

"And for insulting Harry and Ron on a daily basis -"

"Stop carrying their crosses for them, Granger, you're not their mother -"

"For throwing my cat -"

"It scratched me through my robes!"

" _He_ was defending me!"

" _He_ got what he _deserved_."

"And for pinning me to the ground -"

"You attacked me, I was defending myself."

" _Twice!_ "

"Well, Granger, you didn't learn your lesson the first time you tried to hex me, so -"

" _Slamming me into the wall!_ "

"If you'd learn how to keep your mouth shut about my family, we'd never have had an issue in the first place -"

"You are _unbelievable!_ How can you possibly think there's a reason for you to pin a woman against a wall and - and, shout at her just for _insulting_ you? How does that make _any logical_ sense?"

Malfoy grinned. "Actually, Granger, there are quite a few reasons a man might have for putting a woman against a wall -"

"Stop it, Malfoy," Hermione warned, pointing her finger at him imperiously, as she might have done to Harry and Ron when they were about to do or say something particularly stupid.

" - but I don't suppose _you'd_ know anything about that, would you?"

" _Unlike_ the girls you're interested in, I have a bit of self-respect, actually."

"Self-respect? Is that what you're calling it?" he mocked.

"Yes! Self-respect! What would _you_ call it?"

"I'd call it being a prude."

"I'm not a _prude,_ Malfoy, just because I've got some measure of decency, because I'm not overtly snogging people in the hallways -"

Malfoy laughed humorlessly. "That's probably the reason why Weasley hasn't made a move yet. It's because you go through such pains to be so proper -"

"I don't!"

"You _do._ Poor little Hermione Granger, never even been kissed -"

"If you had any idea what you were talking about, which you _don't -"_

"Ooo-hooo, is that so?" Malfoy's reply was full of interest and surprise. Hermione resented him immediately for it. "Do tell, Granger. Who was even more pathetic than Weasley to have kissed _you?"_

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, Hermione felt her heart break, if only for a moment. It wasn't so uncommon, this implication that she wasn't very attractive or worth anyone's romantic interest, and it certainly wasn't new coming from Malfoy specifically. _Not that it's because of him,_ Hermione reminded herself sternly.

"You know, Draco," she said quietly. "I think that I am quite done with your insults."

Malfoy stiffened at her use of his name, a reaction that Hermione would never cease to relish. "Are you, now?" the Slytherin prompted, rising.

Hermione nodded slowly, eyeing him and tracking the boy's hand as it inched closer to his pocket. He might be a lot of things, Hermione realized, but he was intelligent enough to spot a threat when one was aimed at him. "Yes."

"And just what do you plan to do to stop me?" The look on Malfoy's face was superior and taunting. "I don't actually recall a time that you bested me in a duel."

Malfoy had no time to counter when Hermione pulled her wand from the back pocket of her Muggle jeans and quickly cast a blasting curse with such force that he flew back onto the couch, which toppled over. She heard the impact of Malfoy's head against the rug underneath him and was briefly thankful that it wasn't the stone floor - she'd have more problems than she could count if that had been the case.

"You're wrong, actually. You've never bested me in a duel that was fair," Hermione corrected, maintaining a voice that was serene and level despite her shaking hands. "Get up, Malfoy."

Thirty seconds passed with no reply from the other side of the sofa. Another person might have feared that Malfoy was unconscious, but Hermione knew better. _Three, two,_ she waited silently, _one -_ and Malfoy's head popped swiftly over the couch. His wand was aimed directly at her, a blue jet of light that Hermione couldn't identify shooting from the end of it. Hermione threw up a shield and stepped closer.

"You think you're superior to me because you can overpower me," Hermione said as Malfoy jumped to his feet. "But just who is the quicker draw?"

Malfoy spat viciously on the floor and did not lower his wand. "I wouldn't come any closer, Mudblood."

"Or what?" Hermione asked sweetly. "Don't come any closer to you, _or what?"_

Did Malfoy register that she was using his own words against him? Perhaps not, as the look in his eye was becoming more dangerous. Hermione didn't care, sidestepping the couch so that she could face him with no obstacles to separate her.

Malfoy squared his shoulders, his stance wary and guarded as his gaze dropped down to her wand. "Or I'll hex you into next wee-"

And Hermione fired another blasting curse, this time earning a disgruntled moan as Malfoy's lower back collided with the stone-work window sill. "Tsk, tsk, Draco," Hermione chided, grinning. "Don't you know to never take your eyes away from your opponent's? If you look at her wand instead, you'll always be half-a-second behind."

Malfoy raised his wand more quickly than Hermione anticipated, but he still was not fast enough to beat her. His wordless hex bounced away from her shield and ricocheted into the shelf, several books flying out of their home and onto the floor.

"Expelliarmus," Hermione cast resolutely, and his wand sailed into her open hand. She took several steps closer and watched carefully as Malfoy began to move to the side - but Malfoy, Hermione knew, had nowhere to go. "You see, I could have disarmed you several minutes ago, but I wanted the fight to be fair. The last time I managed to disarm you, you took me by the wrist."

Malfoy held her gaze, his face twisted into a grimace that somehow had no effect on his good looks. Hermione drew closer and smiled. "But that isn't going to happen this time, because I won't be stupid enough to take my eyes off of you," she threatened when her wand was up against his chin.

"And just what is it you want me to say, Mudblood?"

Hermione pressed her wand into his skin. "That isn't my name, Malfoy."

"Granger, then," he growled.

"I don't want or need you to say anything," Hermione answered simply. "Because, unlike you, I don't need to intimidate someone to get reactions out of them. I don't need to push girls against walls in order to ask _extremely_ invasive questions about their personal lives."

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "I'm _sorry._ There, is that what you wanted?"

Hermione tilted her head and considered him. "How different you become when you're the one disarmed against the wall," she observed softly.

One end of Malfoy's lips twitched upward. "Like how it feels, Granger? Is it the power you enjoy, or something else?"

Hermione blinked, dumbfounded. She barely had time to register the suggestion in his words before there was a sharp and very loud rapping at the entrance to the common room.

They both stopped.

" _Hermione!_ "

The muffled voice was coming from the portrait hole. It sounded familiar but was not distinctive enough for her to recognize. Hermione couldn't imagine who it might be, because -

"Have you told anyone which portrait to look for?" Malfoy asked, seeming to read her thoughts as he eyed her suspiciously.

"No," Hermione answered.

" _Hermione!"_

The rapping had turned into a loud banging, and then there was a din of furious voices which she knew had to be the painting's inhabitants protesting the assault.

It sounded like… Was it Harry? She couldn't tell.

" _Hermione, open up!"_ It was a different voice this time. Ron?

Forgetting the exchange which now seemed incredibly insignificant, Hermione moved toward the portrait hole, but Malfoy took hold of her shoulder and drew her back. "Wait here," he said in a low sort of voice and then vanished through the doorway as he drew his wand.

Hermione paused, anxious to see who was at the door but at the same time preoccupied with the fact that _Draco Malfoy_ had just stopped her from walking into what may have been a dangerous situation. Was he protecting her or just being aggressive as usual?

She heard the portrait swing forward and it became suddenly clear who the disembodied voices had belonged to.

" _Move,_ Malfoy, we're here to see Hermione," Ron demanded.

 _Shite,_ Hermione thought, rushing over to the couch in a panic so that she could put it right before the inevitable questions about just-what-was-going-on-in-here came in full force.

"How do you know she's even here, Weasley?" Malfoy objected.

"Because we _know,_ Malfoy."

Harry.

There was a scuffle, and then Harry emerged from the stairway looking flustered, the Marauder's Map clutched tightly in his hand. His face was ruddy and disheveled-looking as he cast around wildly until his eyes finally landed on Hermione.

She rushed forward as Ron came through the arch, followed closely by Malfoy.

"Hermione -" Harry gasped.

"Harry!" she gripped his shoulders. "Harry, what happened? Tell me what happened."

Harry looked like he was under tremendous strain, his face contorting in different ways as though he was not sure whether to be elated or consumed with grief.

Panic seized her heart. "Harry -"

"We found it. We found it, and we destroyed it. It's gone," he said frantically.

She felt triumph swell in her chest. "Oh, Harry that's wonderful!" she exclaimed and threw her arms around his neck, catching him in a strong embrace. Over her shoulder, she saw Malfoy and Ron standing to the side.

Ron smiled broadly, letting out a huge breath of relief. _Finally,_ another Horcrux down, _finally…_

But next to him, Malfoy looked broody. Broody and determined.

"What else, Potter?" Malfoy prompted, and Hermione saw that his fists were clenched.

She realized suddenly that Harry had not been hugging her back and withdrew from him slowly, hands set firmly on each of his shoulders.

Harry's face was twisted and tears were streaming freely down his face. He looked desperate, and… unhinged.

"Harry," Hermione began apprehensively.

She had not seen him look this way since Sirius -

"Dumbledore's dead!" Harry choked out.

.

* * *

.

Hermione was vaguely aware that Ron had taken Harry by the arm and led him over to the couch, leaving her to stand motionlessly in the center of the common room.

 _Dumbledore, dead._

Of course, she had been expecting this. They had _all_ been expecting this. Dumbledore had told them ages ago, after the Battle of the Astronomy Tower, had explained about the curse that would take his limb and eventually kill him once it reached his heart. But she had thought there would be more _time_ , more…

Hermione looked up at Malfoy, who had appeared to be rooted to his spot. His jaw was set, his eyes dark clouds of suppressed emotion. They both stared at each other, wordlessly communicating several things at once: confusion, regret, and fear whirled through the space that separated them as they stood, stunned and bewildered.

 _Dumbledore was dead._

Hermione whipped around. "Harry, tell us. Tell us what happened."

She sank into the armchair as Harry struggled to regain some kind of composure. Ron was next to him looking catatonic, the way people sometimes did when exaltation had been suddenly, violently replaced by shock and grief.

Harry had managed to calm his hyperventilation, but Hermione was not sure whether the tears had stopped coming. It was difficult to tell when he looked so deranged.

"We went to Grimmauld Place after Malfoy suggested it had been Regulus Black who stole the Horcrux," he told them. "A lot of the Order were there. Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, Lupin and Tonks had been visiting… your parents, Malfoy, obviously. But we couldn't tell them what we were there for, so we went upstairs and had a look through Regulus' old room. We didn't find anything, so I called Kreacher."

Going through the motion of telling the story seemed to have a calming effect on him, for his sentences became more steady as the tale wore on.

"Kreacher recognized the locket. It turns out that Regulus had defected. Sirius thought that Regulus was murdered for trying to leave the Death Eaters, but that's not how it happened. All we could tell was what Kreacher knew, of course, and Regulus hadn't told him everything, but Regulus found out where Voldemort hid the Horcrux. He brought Kreacher with him to get it."

Harry took a deep breath.

"Regulus ordered Kreacher to force him to drink the potion, and told him to destroy the Horcrux after he had done - Regulus got killed by the Inferi. So, anyway, Kreacher never managed to destroy the Horcrux. He tried everything he could, but… he said the Horcrux was indestructible. We - we had the Horcrux before! Remember, before fifth year, when we were first cleaning out Grimmauld Place? We found it. The locket, it was in our hands!"

Everyone seemed to be waiting with bated breath.

"Kreacher said Mundungus Fletcher had nicked a bunch of valuables during one of the Order meetings. So Dumbledore and I tracked him down… but he had already sold it. He sold it really cheap. To _Umbridge._ "

Hermione gasped.

"We had no idea how we were going to get it from her. Dumbledore couldn't ask her for it -"

"Because she would have kept in on principal -" Hermione cut in.

"And wondered why he wanted it so bad." Ron finished.

"Right," Harry confirmed. "So Dumbledore and I were talking about it in the kitchen - not outright, of course - and Narcissa came down. She knew we were talking about Umbridge, and she'd heard us say there was no way for us to approach her about it."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all looked at Malfoy, seemingly by reflex. The blond wizard had gone so tense it looked as though he might explode.

"She didn't ask us anything about it. She didn't want to know any information. All she said was, 'Dumbledore, is there any way I can be of assistance?' -"

"Potter," Malfoy ground out dangerously. "Tell me you didn't bring my mother into this."

"Malfoy, it isn't what you think -" Harry protested.

" _If even a hair on my mother's head is damaged, Potter, I swear, I'll fucking -"_

But Harry interrupted him. "No! Malfoy, no, she's fine! She's completely fine! I - look, she did more than just help us. We couldn't have done it without her!"

"Explain yourself, Potter."

"Your mum offered us her help. She'd already heard us say that there was no way we could ask Umbridge because the crazy old bat would _know_ we were up to something. So, well, it was sort of a long conversation. We didn't tell her anything that would put her in danger - not any more danger than she's already in, anyway - but in the end, we came up with a plan."

Ron seemed to be ready to have an aneurysm; Malfoy said nothing, waiting for Harry to go on.

"Narcissa went to the Ministry -"

" _What?_ Who knows which Death Eaters are there in disguise -"

" _She had guards, Malfoy._ She went under the pretense that she was there to talk to Scrimgeour, which was so Umbridge wouldn't find it out of the ordinary that Narcissa was there - she's been in disgrace, after all. I forget what your mum really went to talk to Scrimgeour about… something about the Floo connection to Malfoy Manor, I think. So, anyway, she made sure that Umbridge would run into her. And when she did, Narcissa complimented her on the locket. You know, flattering her about it and all that. Well, Narcissa eventually asked Umbridge if she could _buy_ it from her."

"And?" Hermione urged him on.

Harry turned to Malfoy and looked him in the eye. "Narcissa paid 500 Galleons of her _own money_ just to get the locket, Malfoy."

There was a long silence, during which Hermione was sure Malfoy was going to attack someone.

"Malfoy," Harry said finally. "When I say that we couldn't have done it without her… I mean, we really, _really_ couldn't have done it without her."

"So, she's alright then?" Malfoy asked, unable to hide the nervous waver in his voice.

"Yes," Harry answered.

"She doesn't know the locket was a Horcrux?"

"If she does, it wasn't because Dumbledore or I told her about it."

"And my father?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm not sure what he knows, Malfoy. I hardly saw him while I was at Grimmauld Place."

Malfoy was silent for a beat. "Just so you know, Potter, if anything would have gone wrong -"

"You'd have killed me. Yea, I know," Harry finished for him with what Hermione thought must have been sincere respect.

"How did you destroy the Horcrux, Harry?" Ron prompted.

"Right, okay. We brought the Horcrux back here -"

"You brought a Horcrux into the _castle?_ Harry, we have no idea how dangerous they could be!" Hermione asked in disbelief.

"They already brought the first locket here last year, remember?" Malfoy reminded her.

"But it was a fake!" Ron defended angrily.

"They didn't know that before they brought it here, you idiot -"

"Shut _up!"_ Hermione said. "Harry?"

"We brought the Horcrux back here for two reasons. One, because if we'd done it at Grimmauld Place, what it actually was would have been obvious to anyone who has even a vague idea of what a Horcrux is."

Hermione nodded.

"And two, because Dumbledore needed the sword of Gryffindor to destroy it."

"Of course!" Hermione realized excitedly. "The sword of Gryffindor is probably one of the only things in the world that's powerful enough to destroy a Horcrux."

"Right," Harry confirmed, and then his face seemed to darken. "So when we got back to Dumbledore's office, I told him I wanted to be the one to destroy it. But Dumbledore said that it would probably try to kill me, that it would be better if it was him. So I told the locket to open using Parseltongue, and Dumbledore raised the sword like he was going to stab it… the whole process didn't last very long, but it was... strange. Someone came up out of the locket… it was a girl. She looked like a ghost. At first, I thought Dumbledore might hesitate, but it was only for a moment. He stabbed it, and then… then a hand, like a skeleton's hand, came up through the locket and grabbed Dumbledore's arm. The cursed arm…"

Harry's voice broke, and he paused, unable to stop his tears.

"And then he was just dead. He fell," Harry finished, his head dropping into his open palms. His shoulders were convulsing in time with his sobs.

"It was the curse," Malfoy said abruptly. "It was the Dark Lord's soul that did it. After Dumbledore had been cursed because of the ring, the curse in the locket just finished the job. Dumbledore must not have been strong enough to withstand it… not after the curse had brought him so close to death in the first place."

Ron jumped to his feet angrily. "How the hell would you know, Malfoy?"

Malfoy narrowed his eyes. "There are some things I just know more about than you lot, Weasley. Don't you think there was more than one reason Dumbledore wanted me involved in this hunt? Or did you just imagine he was being _sentimental,_ trying to bring us all together as friends?"

"This is exactly why you _shouldn't_ be involved!" Ron argued vehemently.

It was Harry who came between them. "Ron, stop," Harry said. "Malfoy's done more for this mission than any of us ever thought was possible. He's the one who told us who R.A.B was and if it weren't for his mum… we wouldn't even have gotten our hands on the locket to begin with."

Ron's face screwed into an awful, ugly grimace.

"So, that's it, then?" Ron shouted. "After six years of all his shit, after he takes the bloody _Dark Mark_ and lets _Death Eaters_ into the castle, we're all supposed to just be mates now?"

" _No!"_ Harry said exasperatedly. "Who said anything about being _mates,_ Ron? He's the same arrogant twat he's always been -"

"Shut your fucking mouth, Potter!" Malfoy interrupted.

Harry rounded on him. "Stay out of this, Malfoy!" he roared and then turned back to Ron. "He's still the same arrogant twat he's always been, but we have to face the facts, Ron. He's a part of this and we may not stand a chance without him!"

"We do! We do stand a chance without him!" Ron insisted. "There's no reason to have him around us! He still can't be trusted!"

"Dumbledore wanted him to be a part of this," Harry said, more calmly now and with undeniable authority. "And we're going to respect that, Ron, because he's _dead_ now, and he would have wanted it. He obviously knew what he was doing. There's no escaping it now. He's as important to this as you and Hermione are."

Ron stood next to the fireplace looking furious, and Hermione stepped over to him, taking his hand.

"It's okay, Ron," she said soothingly, although she could think of no evidence to support her statement. There seemed to be nothing she could say, no words she could form, that might assure him that things _would_ be okay.

She pulled Ron close to her, standing on her tiptoes to wrap her arms around his neck. He returned the embrace, allowing his cheek to rest against her head as he calmed down. After a moment, Hermione opened her eyes and saw that Malfoy had been watching them with an odd sort of expression. Hermione pulled away from Ron and took a startled step back.

Ron, confused, opened his mouth as though he was going to ask her why she had backed away from him, but at that moment, Harry seemed to remember something.

"Malfoy!" Harry said, turning to face the blond wizard who was standing apart from the rest of them… like he understood that he would never quite belong. "Dumbledore brought something for you, from your parents. Your mum gave it to him to give to you since the owls are being intercepted. It's a parcel. McGonagall will have it now."

"Well, why the fuck didn't you tell me sooner, Potter?" Malfoy said angrily.

He turned on his heel and was gone.


	11. Seven in All

_._

 _._

 _Draco,_

 _I shall keep this letter short. Dumbledore and the Potter boy seem eager to return to the school and I should not like to keep them._

 _Dumbledore has informed me that you are assisting in the fight against the Dark Lord. He has not let on exactly how involved you have become, but I must implore you to tread very carefully._

 _You are an adult now and I no longer have much control over you - I have control over very little now, it seems. But as your mother, I demand that you stay out of harm's way. There is no reason for you to join in with Potter and allow his recklessness to get you killed._

 _Draco, I know that you are trying to protect me and your father, but do not mistake foolhardiness and stupidity for love and loyalty._

 _You have already demonstrated that you are willing to be careless with your life for our sakes._

 _I forbid you to make the same mistake twice._

 _There is nothing in the world I want more than for you to be safe. I would give my life for it, Draco. If there is anything I want you to do for me and your father it is to leave England and never return unless the Dark Lord is defeated once and for all._

 _I have not informed your father that I am writing you. He is… not the same as he once was. I believe that Azkaban has had a profound effect on him and that being shut up in this place is slowly driving him to the edge._

 _I was given the opportunity to visit Gringotts, and I have included some gold that should last you the school year. However, since you are an adult now you have access to the vault even though you have not yet come into your inheritance._

 _I beg you to stay out of danger, Draco._

 _I love you_

 _Mum_

 _._

* * *

.

Draco made his way back to his dormitory as quickly as he could. He doubted whether he would come across Theo so far from the dungeons on a Saturday night, but he remembered from the rota he had made that Pansy had rounds this evening.

He was too tightly wound to chance meeting her by mistake. Even if he did manage to shake her after whatever poorly constructed plan she tried to execute, she may have the bright idea to follow him back to the common room, which would be bad news for everyone involved.

When Draco had stumbled breathlessly into the office (the password for which had still been _Jelly Slugs_ ,) the new Headmistress had been standing at the window, slack-faced and silent, gazing out at Merlin knew what with her hands clasped in front of her. He had half-expected to find a corpse when he opened the door, but wherever in the office Dumbledore had fallen, his body wasn't there anymore. Draco had wondered how the staff managed to get it all sorted out so quickly. It can't have been more than an hour since Dumbledore had died, and yet the office was still and noiseless.

Calm.

Draco had expected to walk in on some kind of chaotic uproar, with teachers rushing in and out, clamoring to make whatever arrangements needed to be made when a Headmaster died at the school.

That was not the case, but McGonagall _had_ been very obviously distraught. Though she had not been crying (and Draco doubted that she _ever_ did,) the older witch had clearly lacked the disciplined equanimity which she usually maintained. She had passed him the parcel and sank, quite shaken, into the high-backed chair that used to be Dumbledore's, looking frightened and overwrought. She appeared as though she might be on the verge of a mental breakdown, but Draco knew well enough after six years that she would be the last person to allow her sentiments to rule her in such a way.

Unwilling to wait any longer for news from his parents, Draco had stayed in the office to read the letter and then allowed McGonagall to engage him in a bit of conversation afterward. It hadn't lasted more than ten minutes and had mostly consisted of questions about Draco himself.

Draco's studies. Draco's parents. Draco's loyalties.

Any other time, he probably would have shown _her_ as much attitude as she had shown _him_ mistrust, but he hadn't had the heart to be snarky with his professor when she looked so defeated. After she seemed to have no more inquiries about his allegiances, she permitted him to leave, which he did with no hesitation. The sooner he was away from his emotional professor, the better.

Between anxious glances into every alcove he passed, Draco wondered what he would encounter when he did make it back to the common room. Would Potter and Weasley still be there discussing the night's events with Granger? Would she have told her friends what strange occurrences had been brewing between the Head Boy and Girl? Would she even still be awake? Glancing at his watch, Draco realized that it wasn't very late at all. He doubted that she'd have fallen asleep so early, especially with everything that had happened. Her mind worked to quickly for that, Draco thought, cringing a bit at the fact that he'd been around her enough over the past few months to have observed as much about her personality. But then, the last week since term had begun had certainly been a strange one.

He thought about what she'd done before the Dynamic Duo had interrupted. Granger was right, _as usual,_ and had bested him. Not that he wasn't fully aware that he could overpower her when the opportunity came… but it hadn't, which was annoying and not something Draco was accustomed to. She was a Muggleborn. A fiercely intelligent one, outrageously determined. _And attractive,_ Draco reminded himself grudgingly. It wasn't something he had ever really pondered before, except perhaps the odd moment that he decided to analyze her love-life, even if he didn't exactly have the grounds to do so.

Or did he? Who was she to tell him what he could or couldn't comment on?

And it was something he _had_ pondered quite often recently. He couldn't help it, as many times as he'd been flush against her. It was her fault, really.

But she was still a Mudblood, and Draco shook his head to forcibly remove those traitorous thoughts from his head as he approached the proper painting.

"Basilisk," Draco said dully and climbed through the portrait-hole. He had scarcely made it to the first step of the spiraling staircase that led into the common room when a mass of bushy brown hair rounded the corner at breakneck speed.

"Oh!" Granger exclaimed, evidently surprised as she crashed into him and knocked him backward.

Unable to steady himself in time, Draco gave a startled _umph_ , and together they toppled to the floor.

Somehow, he had managed to break Granger's fall, which was not at all what he needed just then, and, for the second time that evening, Draco's skull struck the ground.

"What the _fuck,_ Grang-"

"Oh, Malfoy, I'm sorry! I'm so sorry!" she apologized frantically, pushing up off of his chest to scramble to her feet. She grabbed his hand and attempted to pull him upright, but Draco didn't budge. "Malfoy, listen, we have to go to McGonagall, we have to warn somebody -"

"Warn somebody of _what?_ " he asked, his head smarting as he glared up at her.

"Just get _up,_ Malfoy, this isn't the time to be contrary!" she shrilled, tugging on his hand. "We have to tell them, we have to -"

He allowed her to haul him upwards but did not let go of her hand: Granger was moving to leave through the portrait hole, and if Pansy was lucky enough to happen by at the wrong moment, their location would be compromised.

"Granger. _Granger!_ What's the problem?" he asked, dragging her away from the exit and inserting himself between her and the portrait so that there was no way to get around him.

" _Grimmauld Place!"_ she said desperately, trying to wrench her hand away from his. "Malfoy, the Fidelius Charm! Dumbledore was the Secret-Keeper! If he's dead, anyone who knows where it is can divulge the secret! The Weasley's, your parents! They're all in danger, what if someone - we have to warn them - oh, move _over!_ "

"Granger, stop!"

"Move!"

Granger took a large step back to give herself more leverage, yanking his hand as hard as she could in order to pull him away from the portrait. But other than a small jerk forward, Draco did not move. " _Granger!"_ he shouted, letting go of her hand and gripping her shoulders. "Look at me. _Look at me!_ Dumbledore hasn't been the Secret-Keeper for _weeks!"_

Granger stopped struggling against him, her golden eyes flying wide with shock. "I - what?"

"He knew he was going to die soon. He made Lupin the Secret-Keeper before we even left for school," he explained. "McGonagall just told me. Did you think I wouldn't ask the same question? My parents _live_ there for fuck's sake."

"Oh, thank goodness," she breathed. Her shoulders relaxed beneath his grip. "I just thought - well, thank heaven Dumbledore's a genius."

" _Was_ a genius, Granger," Draco pointed out.

"Right…" she agreed. Her eyes seemed to go distant, focusing not on him but on a spot next to his face.

Draco let go of her shoulders, confident now that she would not try to leave the common room. "You were going to go to McGonagall's office to warn somebody?"

She gave a little shake of her head, confused. "Well, yes, you know she's an Order member -"

He grinned. "You didn't think there was a more expedient way to contact them?"

"Like…" her voice trailed off expectantly.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe… the fireplace?"

"Oh! The Floo Network. Right." she laughed. "I was just so scared, I suppose I wasn't thinking properly."

"You're right about that. Pansy has rounds tonight. What if she would have seen you coming out? Or caught you on the way back and followed? You ought to have paid more attention to the rota."

Granger's eyes rounded. "I didn't even consider. I had no _idea_ she would even be out there -"

"That's two missteps you'd have taken if I weren't here to stop you, Granger," he smirked. "And you lot thought I wouldn't be useful."

Her mouth opened as though she were about to say something, but she turned and ascended the stairs instead. Draco watched. Why did she always wear such shapeless Muggle jeans? They were unflattering and hideous.

"Where'd Potter and Weasley get to?" he asked as the common room came into view.

"Back to Gryffindor tower, I expect," she answered, collapsing into one of the armchairs. She brought one slender hand to rest against her forehead as she settled in.

Draco sank into the chair that was opposite hers, propping his feet up on the coffee table, relieved to be at rest. Everything he had learned in the past hour or so had been quite mentally draining. Draining enough, in fact, that at that moment he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep - but now was not the time. He had questions that needed answers.

"How did your two idiot friends know to come here?" Draco asked, watching her for signs of dishonesty.

She opened her eyes and fixed him with a suspicious stare. "First of all, I'll thank you not to insult them."

"Fine, Granger, I won't call your little boyfriends any more names," he promised, then added, "for now."

"I don't know how they knew we were here. Perhaps McGonagall told them."

Draco watched as her eyes darted briefly away.

"You're lying, Granger," he concluded.

"I have no reason to lie to _you,_ Malfoy!" she said indignantly.

"Let me get this straight," he said slowly. "There are two newly Marked Death Eaters in this castle, whose aims are to _kill_ me, and you don't see fit for me to know how, _exactly,_ Potter and Weasley knew how to find this common room when you claim not to have told them?"

"I… I don't…" she hesitated.

Draco raised his eyebrows, daring her to come up with an excuse that topped his reasoning; Granger bit down on her bottom lip and cast her eyes downward.

For a moment, Draco was entranced as he watched the subconscious movement that she apparently had no idea was so enticing,and then swore inwardly as he caught himself. Why couldn't he stop this bloody nonsense?

Suddenly, she turned her gaze upwards and Draco quickly moved his own eyes to meet hers. He hoped she hadn't caught him staring at her lips, but then realized with a smirk that she probably wouldn't even know what it meant if she had.

"Very well." She sighed. "You're right, obviously. But I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell Harry or Ron that I told you this. I'm not sure how they would react."

Granger paused, and Draco waited.

"Harry has a…" she began. "Well, it's a map. Of the castle. And it shows where everyone is at any given time. He was holding it when he came in, but he must have put it back in his pocket so you couldn't see it."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, it shows where everyone is?"

"I mean exactly what I said, Malfoy. There's a dot on the map with your name on it, and there's a dot on the map with mine. With everybody's. No matter who they are - even if they're a transformed animagus, even if they've taken Polyjuice Potion. After he and Dumbledore destroyed the Horcrux, Harry must have run back to Gryffindor tower to get Ron and the map. All he would have had to do is look for my name and he'd have known exactly where to go."

Draco felt fury bloom in his stomach. "So that's how he always knew where I was last year! Fucking wanker's got a map of the bloody castle!"

"You agreed not to insult him!" Hermione admonished sternly. "But you're right, that's how he managed to track you. Although your dot always disappeared when you went into the Room of Requirement, because it's -"

"Unplottable. Yes, I know, Granger." Draco sneered. "I'm a bit quicker on the uptake than your friends, in case you haven't noticed, so while I'm sure they just love to have you explain things to their pathetically slow minds, it isn't necessary with me."

"Oh, sure, Malfoy. ' _What do you mean, it shows where everyone is?'"_ she mimicked. " _Real_ quick on the uptake -"

"The Horcruxes," Draco said abruptly. "What are the rest of them supposed to be?"

Granger sat up in her chair, leaning forward. If she was surprised by his sudden change of subject, she didn't show it.

"Right," she said briskly. "Dumbledore said that Voldemort probably would have wanted his soul to be split into seven different pieces. Seven, because -"

"Because of the magical significance of the number."

She nodded. "One of them was Tom Riddle's diary. In our second year, when the Chamber of Secrets was opened -"

Draco rolled his eyes. "I know the story, Granger. Skip to the part where the diary was a Horcrux."

"Well, Voldemort was talking to Ginny through the diary. Because a part of his soul was in it. Harry destroyed it with a basilisk fang and it started bleeding. It tried to kill him."

"Okay, so the diary was a Horcrux. That's one."

"The second Horcrux was Marvolo Gaunt's ring, which Dumbledore destroyed. That was the one that cursed his hand."

"Two," he counted.

"Then the Locket."

"Alright, three."

"And the snake," she added. "The one that's always with him… like a pet."

"Nagini? Nagini is a _Horcrux?"_ he asked incredulously. "It doesn't seem wise to make a Horcrux out of a living thing. She could easily be killed."

Granger shrugged. "Not so easily if she's a Horcrux… and the fact that she's a _giant snake_ helps. Besides, Dumbledore said that Tom Riddle liked to collect trophies. He made his Horcruxes out of things that held great significance to him -"

"Arrogant bastard," Draco muttered.

"- and since he's directly descended from Salazar Slytherin, a snake would fall into that category."

Draco nodded slowly. "That's four. So the next one would be the cup. Hufflepuff's cup."

"Yes," Granger confirmed. "Dumbledore said that Tom Riddle would have wanted something from the founders. Hogwarts was his first real home. He was obsessed with it. It made him who he was. But Dumbledore also said he doesn't think Voldemort ever found something of Gryffindor's, and, honestly, I've never read about anything about an artifact that represented that house other than the sword, which is, very clearly, _not_ a Horcrux."

"But what is there of Ravenclaw's? I've never heard of anything that represents _that_ house either," Draco pointed out. "Have you?"

"No," Hermione admitted. "But I think it's much more likely that he would have chosen something of Ravenclaw's over something of Gryffindor's."

"So, there's the diary." He began to list, ticking them off with his fingers. "The ring, the locket, the snake, the cup, something of Ravenclaw's, and…"

"... and Voldemort himself," Granger finished. "Seven in all."

Draco leaned back into the armchair, staring thoughtfully into the fireplace. The hunt for the Horcruxes was going to be longer and more difficult than he had anticipated. They weren't even halfway through yet. They had no idea where Voldemort may have hidden most of these damn Horcruxes. And there was at least one that none of them even knew what it could possibly _be._

 _Something of Ravenclaw's…_

And that blasted snake. The thing was a fucking monster… it was terrifying, like a nightmare come true. He'd seen it eat a full-grown wizards before. Voldemort fed it muggles, Mudbloods, and, once, even a Death Eater who had failed to fulfill the Dark Lord's wishes. Witnessing it had been one of the reasons (and not the least of which) Draco had initially been so adamant to carry out his task…

An unsettling thought occurred to him. "What are we even _doing_ here, then?" he asked. "There are at least four more Horcruxes to destroy and we have no clue where they might be. Surely we're not just going to stumble across one on the way to _lessons._ "

"Well, that's the thing, isn't it?" Granger said. "We don't _know_ where any of them are, so what's the point of trying to tramp across the country looking for them? Harry is safer here than anywhere else right now, so in the meantime, I've been doing some research to prepare, but there's almost _no_ literature on Horcruxes at all."

"Is it really safer here now that Dumbledore's dead?"

Granger was silent for a moment and her face fell into a pensive sort of expression, contemplation crossed with mourning.

"I don't know," she said honestly.

Granger really was pretty, Draco realized as he observed her. Her features were even and regular, with skin that was smooth and creamy rather than pale - except, he now knew, for the small dusting of freckles across her nose. From where he sat he couldn't see the small scar on her forehead where she had obviously taken a blow or a fall, couldn't see the thin line on her left cheek where she might've been cut with something… couldn't see the barely-there indentation on her bottom lip where it must have busted open at some point. Draco couldn't see them, but he knew they were there. Her eyes, like dark gold, were her most alluring feature above all. Until last night, he had never been close enough to _see_ them for what they were: beautiful. Or, maybe he had been close enough. Maybe he just hadn't been looking.

It was really a pity about her blood-status.

And her hair.

And her bossy voice.

"Who've you kissed, Granger?" Malfoy asked, smirking.

"I - what?" she looked up at him, blushing.

"Before you attacked me, you were just about to tell me who it was you've kissed before," Malfoy reminded her.

"That's none of your business, Malfoy," she said coolly.

You were going to tell me before, if it meant putting me in my place," he pointed out, throwing his arm over the back of the armchair, attempting to seem as languorous as he could. "Why should it be different now?"

Her eyebrows were knit with irritation. "I don't see why you should care."

"If you've never been kissed, Granger, there's nothing to be ashamed of. You don't have to lie about it to make yourself seem more interesti -"

"Viktor Krum," she revealed.

"Once?"

"No," she answered, simply.

"Don't tell me you gave it up to that moron. I'd wager he can't even _read,_ let alone find a woman's -"

" _No!"_ she said emphatically.

"Who else?" he snickered.

When she didn't answer, he knew he'd been right.

"Not Cormac McLaggen, that complete idiot! Didn't you go to Slughorn's party with him?"

Granger looked away, and Malfoy laughed. _Really_ laughed. It felt good.

"Seriously, Granger? _Him?_ It's no wonder you're attracted to Weasley. You've got _abysmal_ taste in men."

"You're one to talk!" she huffed, rising and crossing the room to the study table, on top of which all of her textbooks and parchment were still scattered. "I suppose you think Pansy Parkinson's a real catch, not that you'd even know what she looks like, with all the makeup she cakes on every day."

She began to pack her things into her bag, which had also been laying on the table's surface, cast aside.

Draco stood, smiling as he mocked her.

"Even Pansy's a trophy compared to the Weasel King."

"For the millionth time, Malfoy, Ron and I aren't together. We're just friends."

"Oh, please, Granger. Let me give you a piece of advice, coming from a male. If you don't want a man thinking you're not interested in him, don't _embrace_ him like a lover. _'Oh, Ronnie, it's all going to be okay,'_ " he mocked cruelly. " _'Just come into my arms and -'_ "

"I was trying to calm him down!" she argued. "He looked ready to attack you. There was quite enough going on without the pair of you fighting."

"I don't care what you say, Granger. You're blind if you think that tosser isn't completely in love with you."

"It wouldn't matter if he _was!"_ she said exasperatedly, dropping her bag with half of her effects still unpacked.

"Ohhh," he realized aloud, trying to conceal his absurd sense of triumph. She was right. Why did he care? "I get it, now. You're not actually _attracted_ to him at all, are you?"

"Malfoy, I'm warning you right now. You're crossing a line."

"He doesn't do it for you," he stated shrewdly. "He doesn't make you want him, does he? He doesn't make you need him. He doesn't make you want to _feel_ him."

"How would you know what I'm attracted to?" Granger demanded suddenly. "What makes you think _you_ are any sort of authority when it comes to my love life?"

"Oh, I think I've got a pretty good idea," Draco gloated.

"Oh, _really_?"

"Well, I can say for certain you're attracted to _me -"_

"WHAT?"

"You can pretend for as long as you want, Granger, but I _know_ -"

"You're _out of it,_ Malfoy."

"- I _know_ because I saw it in your _eyes._ You can't hide _desire_ with a bookish facade -" he stepped around the armchair.

"Stop!" she shouted, coming around to the side of the table and slamming the flat of her palm against it. "You have no idea what I'm attracted to, you haven't the slightest _clue_ what sort of wizard I would want because _you_ are nowhere _near_ my standards."

"Could've fooled me, Granger, the way you looked when I had you up against that wall -"

" _Right,_ Malfoy, well, let's go on and talk about _that,_ then, since you're so sure you could see _desire_ in _my_ eyes. Let's talk about what _I_ saw in _yours!_ "

Granger's cheeks were flushed pink with indignance, her eyes bright in her anger and her voluminous hair swaying with every movement. She looked dangerous and enticing.

"What would daddy think if he knew you were attracted to a _Mudblood?"_ she spat, and Draco felt fury building in his chest.

"I told you not to ever -"

" _Talk about your father,_ " she taunted. "I _know,_ Malfoy, but how can I possibly resist when in this situation your father is so _completely relevant,_ with all your nonsense about _blood-purity_ and _superiority._ After all of that, you're _still_ attracted to _me,_ a _Mudblood._ You want to talk about the Weasley's being blood traitors, but look at _you! Who's the blood traitor now?"_

There was a tense silence in the room. The air seemed to be magically charged with the anger that was flowing freely between them. Draco stood in the middle of the common room, his fists clenched and his jaw set, glaring hatefully at her. Granger seemed to have felt that her point had been made, for after a long moment of staring him down she turned and shoved the rest of her books into her bag.

"I'm going to bed," she announced.

Granger only had time to take two steps away from the table before Draco was on her.

He closed the space between them in one purposeful stride, grabbing her hips with each of his hands and forcing her backward. She gasped loudly and her bag slid from her shoulder, thudding insignificantly against the floor just as her arse hit the table.

Granger angled away from him, but he flattened his palms against the table and followed, leaning into her body even as she tried to withdraw.

"Is this the part where you tell me you're not attracted to me, Granger?" Draco asked, smirking. She averted her gaze, but Draco tilted his head to match her movements so that there was no way for her to avoid looking directly at him. "Is this the part where you push me away from you and try to _pretend?_ "

Draco let his gaze drift down, down to her parted lips and then back up again. He could see the apprehension in her honey-colored eyes as they grew darker with every passing second.

"I… I don't -" she stammered.

"Tell me you aren't attracted to me, Granger. Tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop," he promised, watching with satisfaction as her lip began to tremble.

"Malfoy, I don't know what you think you're doing," she said slowly, her voice unsteady as she tried to maintain her composure. Even in a moment like this, Hermione Granger was trying to exert control. "But whatever it is -"

Draco dipped his head towards her, but she turned away. He went instead for her ear, brushing the tip of his nose gently across it.

"Answer the question," he whispered, and he felt her shudder underneath him.

With one hand still pressed flat against the table's surface, Draco used the other to trace her side, beginning beneath her breasts and traveling down toward her hip. The Muggle sweater she was sporting had made the curve of her waist all but invisible, and though Draco had never had an opportunity to really see her figure because of her conservative dress, actually _touching_ it seemed so much better. He felt her abdomen tense beneath his hand and the knowledge that she was obviously unable to resist him sent an electric jolt of lust surging through him.

"Please, Malfoy, this isn't -"

He breathed into her neck.

"I don't -"

"Answer me, Granger," he growled, gripping her hip with sudden force. "Do you want me or don't you?"

Draco felt her hands move to his waist and he felt a surge of triumph, because he was _right,_ he _knew_ he was, but the moment was short lived and passed just as soon as she stomped her heel into his toes.

" _Fuck, Granger!"_ he shouted, buckling slightly as she pushed against him. He staggered back to see her glaring angrily at him.

"How dare you?" Her voice was low and angry and intimidating, but her face was flushed, her hair was wild and she was more appealing to him now than he had ever seen her. Whether that had to do with being so close to her in _that_ manner, Draco didn't know. It was the first time he had experienced it - their other encounters were all charged by violence and hatred, and this was something different.

"How dare I _what,_ exactly, Granger?" He watched her closely, waiting for that tell-tale movement that meant she was going to draw her wand on him again.

She looked shocked that he would even ask, shaking her head minutely. "How dare you try to use me for whatever perverted -"

" _Perverted -"_

" _Yes,_ Draco, for whatever perverted need you have for me to admit that I'm attracted to you."

"Are you?" he asked suggestively.

She held up a hand. "I'm not interested in any of your power games. I'm not playing anymore."

Draco raised an eyebrow and took a cautious step closer. She didn't retreat. "That's hardly the impression you gave me a moment ago… Hermione."

"Unfortunately, that isn't actually relevant."

"I think it is." Another step.

Granger glanced away and back again. "No, it isn't," she said firmly. "This is only about control for you - dominance."

He was in front of her again, close enough that she had to tilt her head to maintain eye-contact. "What if it isn't?"

He could hear her breathing when it changed, could see her visibly swallow. She didn't answer, so Draco continued.

"You have every opportunity to walk away," he reminded her, holding his hands by his shoulders. "You could have stepped back by now, retired to your dormitory - but you haven't." Draco moved one hand to her cheek, then to her jawline, curling his fingers around the back of her neck. He heard her take in a sharp breath, and satisfaction rushed through him when he _saw_ the falter in her eyes, her impending acquiescence. "Tell me to stop, and I'll stop."

"Don't."

Draco wove his hand into her hair, pulling her head back as his lips descended on hers. The kiss was everything he expected it to be, eager and passionate and fervent and _burning,_ and he could not get enough of it. Draco coaxed the opening of her mouth with his tongue and she responded intuitively, allowing him entrance where he had so badly needed it. Her hands gripped the front of his robes, pulling him closer as he took her bottom lip between his teeth.

She moaned into his mouth, and it was all Draco could take. He pulled away from her and then, with both hands on the underside of her thighs, lifted her up onto the surface of the table and settled himself between her legs.

Her breath was heavy with desire as he stared fixedly into her eyes, searching for a sign that this was not really what she wanted, looking for any evidence at all that Granger had decided this was a horrible mistake.

But Granger didn't pull back or push him away. She took his face in her hands and drew him down again. Draco groaned as he pressed against her, kissing her aggressively, completely overcome with her taste, with her smell. He broke apart from her lips and brushed his mouth along her neck, grazing what was sure to be an overly sensitive spot before he took her skin roughly into his mouth. Granger whimpered, and the sound was just so bloody erotic that he couldn't help himself. He kissed her again and again.

He wanted more, _needed_ more, could not imagine what he would do if he couldn't have it.

"Granger," he said huskily between one kiss and the next. She didn't seem to be paying attention. " _Granger."_

" _What?"_ she panted, her chest rising and falling heavily as he dragged his lips away from hers.

"You need to stop me," he ground out, feeling as though his mind was completely betraying his body. "If this isn't what you want, you need to stop me."

Granger was silent for a beat, and he watched her eyes carefully as recklessness and desire battled against rational thought within them.

"I'm… I'm not sure," she admitted quietly.

"Well, you need to decide, or so help me God, I will carry you to my room and fuck you, _right now,"_ he warned, so enraptured that he could not make it sound like anything less than a threat.

 _Draco Malfoy, suave debonair._

He took hold of her hair and pulled, angling her face toward the ceiling and exposing the soft, white flesh of her throat. She moaned, her eyelids fluttering shut. Granger rolled her neck to one side as though to draw away from him, but he tightened his grip so that she was unable to move. She let out a throaty whimper.

" _Answer_ me, Granger," he demanded, looking down on her upturned face through his lashes.

"I don't know, Malfoy! Christ," she breathed and opened her eyes to regard him. "I don't know…"

He resisted the urge to sneer. "You're a virgin," he surmised.

Granger gave an almost imperceptible nod, although it had not been a question at all.

Draco leaned down and kissed her roughly. Then, he kissed her again.

And then he released her, because this? This was not something even Draco could do.

.

* * *

 **A/N: I lost a few readers after this chapter last time - my advice is to wait for the next one. I doubt that the story is heading in the direction that you may think it is after this.**


	12. The Virgin

**A/N: I'm glad the previous chapter was well-received :)**

 **I'm updating quickly because I happen to have the time and am trying to push out as much editing as possible before my work week begins in full-swing.**

* * *

.

Hermione didn't realize that Malfoy had been the only thing keeping her upright until he pulled away abruptly, taking two long steps backward. She pitched forward and then caught herself, inhaling the first deep breath of oxygen she was able to draw since he had trapped her with his body. Her hair fell in front of her face, obscuring her view of him for a moment before she straightened out again, still perched on top of the table. She wanted to stand, but she was not sure whether her shaking legs would hold her.

Hermione looked down at her trembling hands and gripped the edge of the table as tightly as she could in order to steady them. Her heart was racing so fast and beating so hard that she was _sure_ Malfoy could hear it, even across the few meters of distance that now separated them.

"What's the matter, Granger?" Malfoy drawled. "Knees too weak to carry your weight?"

As though he had read her mind. Hermione gave a hollow laugh. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's rude to boast?"

"My mother taught me many things, but I assure you that humility is not among them," he answered with a smirk.

Malfoy had all his of his usual bite and the arrogance to go with it, but Hermione could tell that his voice was lacking the effortless fluency he usually employed in his speech, and the pinkish tinge coloring his cheeks told her that he couldn't possibly be as nonchalant as he was acting. His lips were red and swollen and she thought she could see tiny marks on the line of his jaw where her fingernails had been. Had she _done_ that?

"No wonder everyone likes you so much," she said sarcastically. "You have all the qualities of a true gentleman."

"Listen, Granger -"

Hermione's knuckles were white around the edge of the table. "What are you playing at?"

"I can resume... if that's what you _want -_ "

"I didn't _say_ that -"

"Deny it."

But she couldn't.

"You can't just run up and start snogging people, and then back off -"

"I did you a _favor._ "

"It's one or the other, Malfoy!" she objected furiously.

"I gave you a choice. You weren't sure, Granger, you don't know what you want."

 _True._

"That didn't stop you at first," she noted.

"You don't understand," he said. "You couldn't possibly understand, you're a _virgin_ , you have no idea what -"

Hermione gave an indignant scoff. "You act as though you didn't know I was a virgin before it happened!"

"I wasn't sure, Granger, I didn't know for a fact -"

" _Really,_ Malfoy, after we just got through discussing the _only_ two boys I've ever _kissed_ in my entire life?" she asked rhetorically. "You're going to claim that you didn't catch on to that _obvious_ fact?"

"You didn't say that explicitly! I just thought - I mean, I was literally _guessing_ -"

"And I suppose Draco-bloody-Malfoy's got so much experience, is that right? The way you make it sound you may as well have slept with the whole school!"

"Granger, the only woman I ever slept with was Pansy. You're taking all the wrong things from this. It's not about ' _experience.'"_

"So, what, Malfoy, you're telling me that your first concern is whether or not I'm emotionally capable of having sex with you? Do you have any idea how ludicrous that sounds?"

"Most girls would be happy!" he argued hotly. "They'd be happy to know that I wouldn't force myself on them or try to take advantage of them when they're in a vulnerable state -"

"I'm _hardly_ in a vulnerable state -"

" - but you really wouldn't _know,_ would you, Granger?" he pressed on. "You wouldn't know because you're a fucking virgin and you don't know anything about sex, or even love, for that matter, seeing as you haven't got a fucking clue that your best friend would probably drop to one knee if you'd let him! If you were _sure_ , if you really _knew_ for certain what you wanted, then it would be different. It would be _much_ different. But as it is, I'm not going -"

" _Just stop it, Draco!_ Stop trying to pretend like you weren't the one who trapped me against the table and started demanding that I admit I'm attracted to you! We can't even have a conversation without you trying to pin me against the nearest surface, and now you kiss me and pull my _hair_ and tell me that you're going to carry me to your room and _fuck_ me and you have the nerve to pretend you're trying to be _considerate_? Spare me!"

Hermione rarely cursed, and Malfoy seemed to recoil a bit in shock at her crude language.

"Look, Granger," he said in a much calmer voice. "You can act like I attacked you if you bloody well please, but you and I know that's not the reality."

"Maybe not, but wouldn't you agree you came on rather strong?"

"Oh, sure, Granger, male dominance is obviously my _tragic flaw,"_ he countered scathingly. "How _completely_ out of the ordinary it is for me to like being in control. How absurdly _unnatural._ The fact is that you didn't complain about it even _once_ , not about the lip biting, the hair pulling, certainly not the kissing. You enjoyed every fucking second of it. Every single place I touched you had you _moaning,_ Granger. Or did you forget so quickly?"

"You shouldn't have started something you weren't going to finish!" she said crossly as she slid off the table.

Hermione saw something flash through Malfoy's eyes and the contemptuous sneer faded from his face. He stepped forward and suddenly he wasn't the snarky, conceited prat she had known him to be for so long. He looked like a different man altogether as he reached for her arm and pulled her against him as though they had not just been arguing about this very thing.

"I'll finish it, then," he said gruffly.

Malfoy lowered his head and kissed her quite as roughly as he had before, his hands taking a possessive hold over her cheeks. His lips slid ardently over hers and she seemed to melt into him, suddenly forgetting all the reasons why she had been so furious only moments ago. His fingers slid from her jaw to her neck, down over her shoulders, along her arms and then her hips. He sucked her lip into his mouth as his hands found their way to her thighs, and before she could register what was happening, her feet came up off the floor and her legs were folded around Malfoy's waist.

Her own hands came to rest against either side of his face as he lifted her and she was distantly aware that they were rotating on the spot, then moving. Malfoy broke away from her, and Hermione opened her eyes to meet his gaze. She couldn't read his expression, but whatever his thoughts were soon became insignificant, for he was lowering her down to the couch and then kneeling with one leg between both of hers, his forearms flat against the cushions on either side of her head.

"What, exactly, did you want me to say, Granger?" he asked, but when Hermione opened her mouth to respond, Malfoy had caught it swiftly with his own, silencing her. Obviously, she was never supposed to be the one who answered the question. Malfoy slid his tongue torturously along her lip and Hermione let her eyes close.

"That I want you?" he murmured into the kiss. He used one arm to prop himself above her and the other to define her jaw with his finger. "I think that much is obvious."

Why was she letting him do this again?

Hermione wasn't sure what to do with her hands. She slid them upwards from his chest, each one curling over his shoulder and then into his silvery hair, which turned out to be as thin and silky as she'd imagined it. She experimentally dragged her fingernails down the nape of Malfoy's neck and was rewarded by a shiver and his barely audible groan.

Malfoy caressed her neck, his fingers brushing lightly against her throat before he turned her face to the side and nipped the soft flesh underneath her ear. She writhed beneath him, her mouth falling open. He bit down again, this time harder, and Hermione could not stop the moan that escaped her lips. The sound alone seemed to urge him on.

"Do you want me to admit that I'm attracted to you?" he whispered into her ear. Malfoy used one finger to guide her face so that she was looking up at him. So dilated were his eyes that they looked almost black, with only a thin icy ring lining the edge to hint at their true color. "You are more beautiful than you know."

Hermione's heart stopped. How long had it been since someone had called her beautiful? Bill and Fleur's wedding, probably… but she had been dressed up then, with her hair and makeup done and donning a beautiful dress for the occasion. Of course they had remarked that she was beautiful when she had put forth such an effort, but now, as she lay on her back in casual Muggle clothes, with her bushy hair even more tousled than normal and no makeup whatever, was she still beautiful? Evidently, Malfoy thought so.

Then again, Malfoy was a liar.

Her eyes darted away from his, but he held her face still. "Trust me, Granger," he said in a husky undertone, his hand suddenly abandoning her neck in favor of her thigh, which he pushed to the side to allow room for his body. His hips sank into hers and there was no more space between them. "There is nothing else I want more at this moment than to be the first wizard who shows you what pleasure is."

He rocked his hips into hers and pulled her hair, drawing her head backward. Hermione moaned, arching her back off the couch slightly.

"But haven't given a bit of forethought to whether you _really_ want this. Just because no one else has made you moan, or writhe, or scream, or _need,_ doesn't mean it should be me. It doesn't mean you _want_ it to be me."

He twisted his hand and pain shot throughout her scalp; Hermione had never felt anything more erotic. Malfoy kissed along her neckline, teasing at the taut skin with what Hermione felt had to be expert ministrations. Surely he didn't learn all this with only Pansy.

"I hate you," she said softly.

Malfoy smiled, and Hermione was stunned. She was not sure whether she had ever seen him smile. Grin, yes. Smirk, of course. But never smile.

"Are you sure you want your first time to be with a man you've hated since you were a kid?" he asked, thrusting his erection against her. Hermione whimpered, unsure of what to say.

 _Maybe._

"I don't know," she said, and the answer seemed to be enough for Malfoy, for he kissed her one more time. It was the most aggressive one yet, his regret and need spilling from him as he pressed her into the couch. He had pulled his hand out of her hair and grabbed her face roughly, taking whatever it was he needed from her in order to tear himself away.

Finally, he broke apart from her and ran a thumb across her lips. "When you're sure, come find me, Granger. If I'm still alive."

He pushed himself off the couch and, pausing to examine her one last time, left her in the common room, with her hair still awry, her cheeks still flushed, still panting as she lay alone on the couch.

.

* * *

.

The next two weeks passed far too quickly for Hermione's liking. Every day seemed like a waste if she didn't find anything new about the Horcruxes, and it felt as though she had searched every book in the Restricted Section for even a mention of them. It had seemed, however, that there was absolutely nothing written about them anywhere except in _Magick Moste Evile_ , which had been thoroughly unhelpful.

Since Dumbledore's funeral, Harry appeared to have gotten over his grief but had promptly replaced it with determination. It took all of Hermione's energy just to keep him at school.

"Harry, we don't have a clue where to start looking! There's just no point" she had begged him one evening in her common room. "It's safer for you here, while we wait -"

"Wait for _what,_ Hermione?" he had shouted back. "Wait for Voldemort to get even stronger? Wait for the Death Eaters to kill more people? More _Muggles?"_

"It's important for you to stay safe, if you're the only hope -"

 _"They are not safe, Hermione!"_ he had fumed. "I'm not going to just wait here like a bloody coward while people are out there being _murdered!_ "

"That's not what I'm trying to say, Harry! I know it's killing you to be here while he's out there gaining power, but I just think there's something else here for us to find out, a clue, or something to direct us to where they might be, there might even _be_ a Horcrux here! This was his first home, it makes sense -"

" _Where?"_ Harry had demanded. " _Where might he have hidden a Horcrux?_ We don't know a single place in this castle where one might be, Hermione, and you've been through the whole of the library and you haven't been able to find anything about them at all. It's time to give up, it's time to leave and _do_ something about it!"

Thankfully, Ron agreed with Hermione, and Harry had allowed himself to be persuaded to stay. But Hermione had known by Harry's far-off stares and his fidgeting during lessons that it would only be a matter of time before she would not be able to argue with him. He would go regardless of whether Hermione and Ron chose to follow.

So she started to pack.

.

* * *

.

On her birthday, Hermione kept to her room and tried very hard not to think of her parents. Harry and Ron had evidently forgotten, which was not surprising and didn't offend her (that much.) They were out on the pitch, practicing with their new Chaser, Nigel Wolpert, which was fine with Hermione because Quidditch seemed to be the only thing that had been able to distract Harry from thoughts of Voldemort and how to destroy him.

Quidditch and Ginny, of course

She tried to restrict her studying to the library and to her own desk to avoid Malfoy as much as possible, and every time she did brave the common room, he greeted her with some uncreative remark about being a know-it-all. She was not in the mood to deal with any of his snide comments but also had not wanted to go to the library, so here she was in her own bedroom, struggling to find space for all her books. She had just pushed her Arithmancy textbook off the desk by accident when there was a knock at her door.

"Go away, Malfoy," she called in frustration. "I don't have time -"

"Hermione, it's us! Come down!" It wasn't Malfoy's voice at all, but Harry's. So she left her homework where it was and ventured down to the common room.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione!" Harry, Ron, and Ginny chorused, still dressed in their Quidditch uniforms. Hermione smiled and took the cake happily - red icing with the number _18_ written in gold. "Did you make this?" she asked, looking up at her friends who were all beaming.

"Technically, the House-Elves made it," Ron admitted.

"Dobby was very excited about it, actually," Harry told her.

"He told us to tell you -" Ron took on his best Dobby impersonation. " _'Happy Birthday, Miss!'_ "

"Thank you so much, you guys," Hermione said affectionately. "I'd thought you'd forgotten."

"They did," Ginny said, shooting a glare toward Harry, who looked sheepishly away.

Hermione just rolled her eyes and smiled, setting the cake down on the coffee table. They spent the next hour or so talking and laughing amongst themselves, enjoying their comfortable companionship and telling jokes and talking about (of course) Quidditch. Harry and Ginny had been sitting next to one another on the couch while Ron destroyed Hermione at Wizard's Chess. The whole situation had reminded her of their earlier years in school, which hadn't been as heavy or ominous with the threat of war. She was grateful for the few hours she had spent with her friends where Horcruxes weren't the main topic of conversation.

When it had got quite late, Hermione rose from the armchair and stretched. She hated to leave when she had been so enjoying their time together, but she had her Head Girl duties to attend to.

"I've got to go, guys, I'm sorry. I've got rounds with Terry Boot tonight," she told them.

"Come on, Harry," Ginny said with a significant glance that flicked from Hermione to Ron and back again. Harry and Ginny stood, each giving Hermione a quick hug before they turned to leave.

"Happy birthday again, Hermione," Harry called just before they reached the stairs.

Hermione waved and then turned to Ron, who had also risen from the armchair. He looked nervous as he approached her.

"Hermione, I was thinking," he said timidly. He reached down and took her hand. "That maybe you'd want to… er, well…"

Hermione's heart sped up. "Yes?"

"Go out sometime, maybe to Hogsmeade or something, you know, like a… well, like a date?"

Hermione wasn't sure what to say.

She had liked Ron for a long time, up until last year when he had flaunted Lavender in her face just to make her jealous. She had known intellectually that it was because he liked her, but it had been such a poor way to go about it that she had lost many of her feelings for him. Still, he looked so handsome in that uniquely 'Ron Weasley' sort of way, with the self-conscious dip of his head and that lopsided grin and his friendly blue eyes.

Absurdly, Hermione thought of Malfoy, who was not as tall as Ron was but was much more attractive, who had always seemed so easy and confident and sure of himself, who probably would never have gone about things in this manner… but she pushed that thought away. There was no reason to be thinking of him right now. What, was she just going to let _Malfoy_ ruin her chances at something she had wanted for years? Even if Ron had hurt her feelings last term, that didn't mean she should just reject him. There was always a chance…

"I'd like that, Ron," Hermione said with a smile, and Ron seemed to be very relieved. He took a step toward her and Hermione's heart dropped.

He wasn't going to kiss her. _Surely,_ Ron was not going to kiss her.

 _This can't be happening._

Hermione almost took a step back, not sure if she wanted things to happen this way, but discovered that her legs had lost their will to move. Ron placed a hand on her cheek before he leaned down and brought his lips gently to hers.

Ron was a good kisser. She supposed he would have had to be by now, as often as he snogged Lavender. It was slow and soft and loving… nothing like Viktor's uncoordinated fumbling, or Cormac's sloppy aggression, or Malfoy's heated possessiveness.

A door opened behind her, and she knew it could only be one person.

"Disgusting," Malfoy said scornfully, and Hermione jumped away from Ron, startled. "I've got to say, Granger, you've got horrible taste."

Ron flushed red. "Sod off, Malfoy."

"Not likely, Weaselbee, this is my common room," Malfoy said pompously.

"Mind your own business, Malfoy," Hermione said coldly, and then to Ron, "Don't let him upset you. He's hardly worth it. I'll see you tomorrow, Ron."

Ron looked as though he had more to say to Malfoy, but understood himself to be dismissed.

"Right, well…" he trailed off as he turned back to her. He was looking nervous again but still grinning with a relieved sort of self-assurance. He leaned forward and planted a chaste kiss on her lips. "Tomorrow, then. Happy Birthday, Hermione."

And he walked around her to exit the common room. After she heard the portrait close, she rounded on Malfoy angrily, who had just reached the bottom of the stairs that lead to his own dormitory.

"Why do you have to ruin _everything?_ "

Malfoy smirked. "Only doing what I do best. You must not be very intelligent at all, are you? Or do you _want_ to be wed in a barn house?

"You lost the right to comment on my personal life two weeks ago," she stated.

He nodded toward the half eaten cake that was still sitting on the coffee table. "I suppose Weasley fancies himself a birthday present, then. Was it everything you wanted? The kiss, I mean."

"Don't talk as though you know anything about me, Malfoy. _Or_ Ron."

"I know you weren't enjoying it," he said arrogantly.

Hermione felt herself blush. "Yes, I was!"

"Oh, yeah, obviously. It looked so very passionate, I'm sure you were positively _aching_ for more."

Hermione smiled. "If you're jealous, Malfoy, you only have to say so."

"I'm not _jealous,_ Granger, I'm just making an objective observation."

It was then that she noticed his attire. He was wearing a long, black cloak with a silver fastening embossed with the letter 'M.' It looked expensive, and underneath the hem, Hermione could just make out that he was wearing boots.

"And just where are _you_ going?"

"For a walk, Granger."

"After curfew?"

"Curfew ceases to be an issue when you're Head Boy."

"Not very wise, is it, seeing as your life is in danger."

"Mind your own business, like you said, Mudblood," he said disdainfully.

"How _dare_ you?" Hermione said incredulously. "After everything, you still have the audacity to mention my heritage -"

He looked as though he was about to walk past her, but when his shoulders came level with hers, he turned his head to look down at her. "Don't think it changed anything, Granger," he sneered. "I'm still what I am, and you're still what _you_ are."

"This, coming from the boy who'd likely be blasted off his family tree for kissing a Muggleborn!" she said angrily as Malfoy turned away and headed toward the stairway. "You can try to come off as hateful as you want, Malfoy, but I know."

He stopped at the archway. "You don't know half as much as you think you do. And by the way, that's ten points from Gryffindor."

"For _what?"_ she demanded indignantly.

Malfoy tapped his watch. "For being late for your rounds, Granger."

And then he was gone.

.

* * *

.

Hermione was so angry that she suggested (rather rudely) to Terry that they split up and cover different parts of the castle. Looking confused and a little offended, he agreed and said that he would cover the west end while Hermione took the east.

She had felt guilty afterward, but not regretful. She needed time to think.

The truth was that she was not sure she'd made the right decision when it came to Ron.

Since last year, Hermione hadn't really wanted anything to happen between the two of them. Not, at least, the way she had before. Ron had been so inconsiderate toward her that it was very nearly bordering on cruel. And yet when he'd asked her to go to Hogsmeade it had still felt rather like a dream come true, like she'd been given something she'd waited forever to obtain. She loved Ron and would always love him, but if she was being completely honest with herself, she knew that the fulfillment of a childhood crush was not a good enough reason to start a relationship with someone.

And he had kissed her. Evidently, the fact that she had agreed to go out with him had given him enough courage to make a move.

It had been… nice.

But ultimately, Malfoy was right. Their kiss lacked passion - on her end of things, at least. It had been sweet and pleasant, but 'pleasant' seemed very far away from what she had experienced with Malfoy.

 _Not_ that she wanted to repeat what had happened between them. Not that she wanted to suffer the embarrassment of, essentially, having been rejected. She had enjoyed it even if she didn't exactly know if it was only because it was something so new and exhilarating, and for it to have ended the way it did, for him to be the one that had backed off… that was mortifying.

She'd spent the past two weeks steadfastly avoiding him, unwilling to speak to him at all or even meet his eyes. She was terrified that if he got close enough to read her face again she would betray herself, and she wasn't confident enough about the way she felt about it all to risk being put in the same position. So she left the common room early in the mornings and came back very late on nights when Harry and Ron weren't visiting her. She made sure she sat facing away from the Slytherin table at meals and sat in the furthest seat away from him during classes.

Hermione had caught him staring at her no less than seven times.

 _I did you a favor… you weren't sure… if you really knew for certain what you wanted, it would be different._

Hermione shook her head. She wasn't sure what to think about that. If there was any person in the world who she would have _least_ expected to care about whether she was a virgin, it was Malfoy. And he had been very right when he told her that she had not given any forethought to the decision.

 _Are you sure you want your first time to be with a man you've hated since you were a kid?_

Hermione hadn't been sure, and in the end, it seemed that he was just as foul as he had always been.

 _Mudblood._

She scoffed into the silence of the fifth-floor corridor. How could he still call her that when it was so evident that her being a Muggleborn didn't stop him from wanting everything else? If he was really as much of a Pureblood supremacist as he claimed to be, surely sleeping with _Mudbloods was_ out of the question. If it had all really been about desire and nothing else, he would have just _done it,_ and not given her all that rot about being sure…

People did strange things when they were being driven by lust, Hermione decided, and she could attest to that with her own experience, limited though it was.

Having found nothing out of the ordinary on the fifth floor, she headed for the Grand Staircase. It had just come into view when she saw a flash of black robes descending the stairs, moving _very_ fast. If it was Terry, then he obviously needed help or he wouldn't have been moving so quickly, so Hermione broke into a run as she took the corner, grateful that the capricious staircase had been on the east landing at the time. But when the person came into view, she recognized Theodore Nott's long haircut instead.

If Theodore Nott was out after curfew, it wasn't a good sign. He'd be working on whatever plan he had to get rid of Malfoy, of that much she was certain. She slowed her pace so she could follow him without being noticed, but before she made it to the fourth-floor landing, the staircase that Theo had been taking moved with the Slytherin boy still on it.

 _Dammit._ She thought with disappointment. There was no way she would be able to tail him at this rate - he'd be gone long before the staircase made its way back to her.

"Nott!" she called out impulsively, and he turned around to shoot her a glare that was full of spite and malice. "Ten points from Slytherin for being out after hours. And you can do your detention this Saturday with Filch."

"Mudblood," he snarled.

"Make it twenty-five points," she said simply, and the Slytherin turned and continued on his way.

Yes, Hermione had been very angry indeed.


	13. Seeking Redemption

**Sorry for the wait, everyone. The unfortunate thing about being the GM of a restaurant is that, when someone quits, you have to work his shifts until you can find an adequate replacement, even though you're already working 50 hours at one job and 20 at another. 85 hours a week hasn't been kind to me. I'll hopefully be off every Sunday from now on, so I'll try to have weekly updates.**

 **Lots of Draco's introspection, a visit from Snape, and just a bit of Ron bashing. Don't worry, he redeems himself, though. Sort of.**

 **.**

* * *

.

He should have just fucked her, and Draco was quite sure he was losing his mind because of it.

He had thought about Granger every single night since Dumbledore's death and was no closer to regaining his sanity now than on the evening he'd made that horrible decision in the first place.

During lessons, he thought about touching her every time she crossed or uncrossed her legs; he thought about tasting her every time she sucked thoughtfully on her quill; he thought about her smell every time she shrugged off her Hogwarts robe during Potions. He thought about her every time she laughed with her stupid friends in the Great Hall and every time Weasley or Potter leaned over to whisper something in her ear during Transfiguration.

Every time he came into his common room and saw her there studying, he wanted to flatten her across the table. Every time he came into his common room and saw her there with her two pet imbeciles, Draco wanted to throttle them both.

And every time she _wasn't_ in the common room, he wondered where, indeed, she was.

For a Mudblood whose sex life Draco had never previously given any serious thought to except to mock her, Hermione Granger had certainly found a way to entrance him. Now, he could not think why he'd passed up the opportunity: none of his reasons seemed adequate enough when he was watching the sway of her hips as he walked behind her in the corridor.

It had never been this way with Pansy.

Pansy had been satisfactory and nothing more. His previous school years had been filled with his rush back in from lessons so he could have her, but he had been a kid then. He'd been just a boy who had a girlfriend that was stupid enough to give it up, and for two whole years he had taken it for what it was. Pansy had never had the ability to consume him like this, which Draco knew was something very significant indeed.

With all of Pansy's beauty and curves and shortened skirts, all of her push-up bras and lacy knickers and makeup, with all her willingness to let Draco do what he wanted, it was ironic that the Mudblood Hermione Granger had fathoms more sex-appeal.

Granger, whose skirt reached all the way to her knees (like it was supposed to,) who never wore an ounce of makeup at all, who apparently didn't even _own_ a hairbrush and who (evidently) had no sexual experience to speak of, somehow managed to take hold of his rationality and run off with it. Surely the _logical_ thing to do would have been to just fuck her.

But what would have happened after that? What would have happened after it was over and she realized what she'd done, that she'd lost her virginity to the boy who had teased and tormented her for as long as they'd known one another? What would have happened when Draco took off his shirt and she saw the Mark on his arm?

What would have happened when all of her sensitive little _Gryffindor_ feelings set in? He shouldn't have asked her. He should have just carried her up to his room and taken her, but it wouldn't have been right.

It wouldn't have been alright to just fuck her when he knew that her ability to make good choices was diminished, when he knew that after it was over she would have to ask herself whether she'd done the right thing. It had felt too close to taking advantage, which was something he would _never_ do, even to someone he loathed.

Granger hadn't had to _tell_ him she was a virgin. He had known as soon as she said she wasn't sure because if she'd already been shagged before then there was _no way in hell_ she wouldn't have known for certain what she wanted… not after _that_. Of course, she was wild with pleasure. She'd never even been so much as touched in any kind of sexual way in her entire life.

He wasn't a blundering kid who didn't know what he was doing, not like he had been during his first time when he couldn't even unclasp Pansy's bra properly let alone bring about her climax. He was older now, and Hermione Granger hadn't stood a chance against him. He was also more mature now and… many things were different. Maybe a year ago he would have taken advantage. Back then, he might have just _done it_ with no heed as to whether she was ready for it. Back then, he wouldn't have cared.

Well, not that he necessarily cared _now_. Not about her, in any case. But whatever he felt about her, there were certain things that no one deserved. Granger ought to have been grateful to him for being as level-headed and considerate as he was, but she was very clearly angry. Angry and beautiful. And untouched. Pure.

The thought was more than a little arousing.

Draco had left the castle and circled the Quidditch pitch twice already during his musings. He knew that he was walking on shaky ground: not even the Head Boy had an excuse to be out of the castle after dark, not with the way things were, politically. He was risking more than just detention and docked points: he was risking his badge.

Dumbledore was dead now, and Draco was sure that the new Headmistress would be less than understanding about his midnight excursion… there were plenty of things a defected Death Eater could get up to on the grounds in the middle of the night.

' _Mister Malfoy, what_ exactly _were you doing traipsing around the Quidditch pitch after curfew?'_ McGonagall would demand to know.

 _Oh, just thinking about the way Hermione Granger felt when she was moaning underneath me, Headmistress, nothing untoward…_

Coming around to the other end of the castle, Draco approached the lake shore, where the wind coming off the water was considerably colder. Draco could not see the moon tonight, and the only things that disrupted the inky blackness surrounding him were the few scattered stars that had escaped the clouds, and their reflection on the lake's otherwise pitch surface. Yes, he had needed the time to think. In his common room, he had no peace; if he had decided on a stroll around the castle, he'd have inevitably run into Granger during her rounds, which would have done nothing for his tempestuous mind.

 _Weasley._

Now _there_ was a Class-A idiot, certainly no one who deserved to have Granger's affection, let alone her body... Wonder-boy's stupid sidekick, and now, apparently, Granger's new boyfriend.

When he'd left his bedroom and saw them, Draco _had_ to interrupt them. And he probably would have done the same thing for the past six years, for they were two of his favorite people to torment and he had always gained immense pleasure by upsetting them. Now, it was different. He had been angry and betrayed and _jealous,_ and Draco could not bear to watch them carry on.

He took a deep breath as the image floated again to the forefront of his mind. Both of them standing in the middle of the common room, with the red-haired moron kissing her and looking so bloody pleased with himself, and Granger letting it happen as though she were really _physically_ attracted to the stupid tosser.

He knew that she didn't want Weasley the way she wanted Draco - she had practically admitted as much.

 _He should have just fucked her._ He should have just done it, blood-status and uncertainty be damned. At least Draco could have rested with the knowledge that he'd been the first. Now, here was Weasley, finally having searched his reserve of courage and made a move on her… and where did that leave Draco?

Aggravated.

But surely he didn't have to allow it to happen like that. Surely he could still have her before the Weasel got a chance. Surely he could just corner her in the common room… and yet, his dilemma was not of a purely sexual nature: it was a _moral_ one.

Draco seemed to be having many of them these days.

He tilted his head back and let the cool night air pass over his face, gazing up at the dark, cloudy sky.

What would his parents do if they found out? Disown him, probably.

Perhaps not his mother, but his father would feel that Draco had betrayed his family, his _bloodline_ , just by daring to be attracted to her… and never mind actually acting on his urges. Narcissa could probably never hate him, regardless of his choices: cold as she was, his mother loved him unconditionally. But what would she _do?_ How would his regal, aristocratic mother feel if she knew what he'd been getting up to at school with a Mudblood?

 _Not_ that he planned to let either of them find out, Draco reminded himself, kicking half-heartedly at a pebble. There was always the issue of why he was attracted to a Mudblood in the first place. She hadn't always been as beautiful as she was now, had she? Perhaps it was only because he had never been in such close proximity to her... or maybe his prejudices had been enough to make her _seem_ repulsive. Had he been so bigoted that his mind merely glazed over her, disregarding her and making him think she was something else altogether? That she was something detestable, untouchable?

People didn't just become gorgeous overnight. Certainly not Hermione Granger, who, other than the Yule Ball, had never made an effort to look _pretty_ for as long as he'd known her. Either _she_ had somehow changed, or Draco's perception of her had. If the latter was the case, Draco was in even more trouble than he thought. If he could no longer hold on to the ideals which he had been raised to believe, what else did he have, really?

"You are..." A silky tone threaded suddenly into the silence. "A very foolish boy."

Draco's heart soared painfully into his throat and the wizard spun around, all senses heightened in alarm when he brandished his wand in the direction of the approaching voice.

" _Lumos!"_

Light flooded the immediate area, but its shallow illumination was not powerful enough to reach whoever had intruded on his thoughts. He was ready to cast a Stunner blindly into the darkness when a sallow face stepped into view.

"Put your light out, Draco," Snape ordered. "Unless you wish to be caught."

" _Nox,"_ Draco muttered, breathing a heavy sigh of relief.

"How utterly careless of you. Tell me, do you have a death wish? Are you such an idiot that you would risk coming to the grounds after midnight _alone?"_ the professor asked in that same manner of speaking he usually employed… the one that made students feel stupid and useless. "What would possess you to be so abysmally reckless?"

"I needed time to think. I needed space," Draco admitted. He turned away from the older wizard to gaze out over the black water. It was still calm and undisturbed, nothing at all how Draco felt inside.

"You have been given a _private_ dormitory, Draco, there is no reason -"

"Please, professor, spare me the lecture," he interrupted. "I just needed air. I needed to get away from the castle."

"You're living arrangements are not to your liking," Snape concluded.

 _Well, that's not_ strictly _true…_

"It's been a huge source of… frustration," Draco finally answered.

There was a pause.

"Interesting choice of words," Snape commented.

"Where were you?" Draco countered swiftly.

"Malfoy Manor. You chose a poor night for a stroll. If Professor McGonagall had caught you out on the same evening I answered the Dark Lord's call, she would likely have jumped to conclusions."

Draco turned to look at his professor, but without the aid of the moonlight he could scarcely make out the line of Snape's face, let alone his expression.

"The Dark Lord called?" Draco asked. "I didn't feel it burn."

Snape seemed to consider this. "The Dark Lord does not have to call every person who is Marked if he does not wish to. Nevertheless, I am surprised. Your father has been experiencing the burn almost continuously."

Draco tried to hide the eagerness in his voice. "When did you see my parents?" He felt as though he was searching for scraps beneath the dinner table, so desperate was he for information.

"I have seen them twice since Professor Dumbledore's death."

"My mother?"

"She is... very worried for you. Close to hysterical, in fact. I suppose watching Lucius suffer has made her assume that you are suffering as well."

So Voldemort was exacting revenge on his father by inflicting constant pain. To feel the Dark Mark burn even for a few moments was agonizing. Draco could not imagine having to endure it for as long as Lucius had apparently been forced to… and why had his mother not mentioned it in the letter? It was obviously a significant factor in his father's decline.

Draco dragged a hand across his face, feeling angry and exhausted and helpless. "He hasn't done the same to me. Why?"

"Why, indeed?"

"Stop being so bloody cryptic!" Draco ground out.

"Calm yourself, Draco," Snape admonished smoothly. "There's little point in venting your… frustrations on me."

Draco rolled his eyes in the dark and scoffed. "Pansy tried to come on to me."

"I assume you were not able to be tempted?"

"Would I be here if I was?" Draco replied peevishly. "She didn't take very kindly to being rejected. I thought I was going to have to curse her in the middle of the corridor."

"How did you manage to avoid it?" Snape asked, sounding genuinely curious.

"Weasley and Granger stepped in to save the day, as usual."

"And Theodore?"

"Nothing overt. Not yet, at least," Draco answered.

Snape was silent for a long moment. "Your mother wants you to leave the country."

"I'm aware."

"You do not believe it would be the wisest decision?"

"I know what my mother _wants._ But I'm not just going to run away from this. I'm not just going to leave my parents in Britain and wait for them to be slaughtered -"

"They would have you protect yourself first!"

"I don't need to protect _myself!"_ Draco argued vehemently. "They're the ones who need my protection. He'll kill them, both of them -"

Snape took one step closer to him. "Is this really what you want, Draco? Do you truly want to involve yourself in this, chasing Potter around while he dives head first into danger with absolutely no regard for anyone else's safety? You have an opportunity to leave. I can help you, I can get you away from the castle. You can _leave the country, and live!"_

"I'm not going out like a bloody coward. Not again. And I'm not leaving this fucking country until Voldemort's dead."

Draco saw his professor's countenance change, but it was nearly imperceptible. If Snape thought first to correct Draco's use of the name, he did not act on it and instead pressed on. "You are being _foolish._ For once in your life, demonstrate some measure of actual _intelligence,_ Draco. You are just a kid. You're a _boy -_ "

"I'm _not_ a child -"

"Neither are you an adult!"

"IT'S NOT MY FAULT YOU MADE THE UNBREAKABLE VOW!" Draco raged.

" _Muffliato!"_

Snape took in a handful of Draco's cloak, pulling the younger wizard toward him. "Silence! If you cannot learn to control your temper, how do you expect to keep a level-head when this war begins? If you cannot even -"

"When it begins?" Draco said furiously. " _It's already_ _begun!_ People are dying, every other person's under the sodding Imperius Curse! Dumbledore's _dead,_ and you think this war hasn't started yet?"

"You have no idea how bad it will soon become, Draco. You weren't even born when the Dark Lord was in power, you could not possibly understand."

 _You couldn't possibly understand…_ He wondered if Granger had been as enraged by those words when Draco had said them to her.

He shoved Snape's hand away from him. "I'm not running away. There's only one way to protect my parents. When it's time, I'm going to be _right here,_ helping Potter do whatever the fuck it is that needs to be done to stop that fucking half-blood maniac."

He was close enough now to see the sneer unfurl on Snape's face. "You are seeking _redemption,_ Draco. There are better ways to go about it -"

"There's not! There's no other way to redeem myself! You think you know everything, but you haven't got a fucking clue, Snape."

"I know much more than you think I do. I can _help_ you -"

"If you want to _help_ me, don't ask me to walk away from this," Draco said flatly.

He stepped around his professor and stormed away, back to the castle, back to his common room… back to fucking Granger.

.

* * *

.

She was there when he came through the archway, standing at the window with that hellish cat cradled in her arms. She turned to face him, her bushy curls framing a distraught looking face. "Malfoy," she breathed. "I thought…"

Draco sneered. "Yes, Granger?"

"I saw Nott, after curfew. On the Grand Staircase. I thought maybe he'd gone after you."

Draco raised his brow, interested. "Where was he headed?"

"Downstairs, from somewhere above the fifth floor. I tried to follow him, but the staircase moved. There was no way to keep up."

"You followed him?" he questioned angrily. "Are you trying to get yourself killed?"

"You don't think it would be better to know what all his moves are? Or would you prefer to be in the dark?"

"Granger," Draco said slowly, enunciating every word. "Theo is not Pansy. He's clever. He's more dangerous than she is."

"I know that. That's why I tried to follow him. Whatever his plans are, they're going to be much less obvious than hers. It's only logical."

"I should have known you wouldn't be able to resist being a fucking hero," Draco snorted. "Leave it to Potter to track the Death Eaters, Granger, there's no point in you risking your life -"

"I'm not _risking my life,_ Malfoy," she argued. "I'm not his target."

"You're not seeing the bigger picture. First of all, you're Potter's best friend. You are a _natural_ target, and don't think Voldemort and the Death Eaters don't know that you're the brains behind your little trio. They do," Draco explained, thoroughly irritated by her lack of foresight. "Second, the whole damn school knows that we share a dorm, and you _really_ think that Pansy and Theo aren't going to try and use that to their advantage?"

"I'm not afraid of Theodore Nott, Malfoy, however dangerous he is," Granger said bluntly.

"Yes, well, that's the problem with all you stupid Gryffindors, isn't it? You're so blindly reckless that you just disregard _dangerous_ people as if they're not threats."

"So, what's the solution then?" she asked, throwing her arms wide as if to invite further input. "We just wait for him to pop out and try to do you in? That's ridiculous!"

"You're not _listening,_ Granger. I practically grew up with Theo. I know him better than you do, _I'm_ the one who understands him. I'm not just going to let you…" he trailed off, realizing that if he did not switch gears immediately, she would be the one in control of the conversation. "You ought to stop acting like you care so damned much."

Granger let the hideous ginger cat fall from her arms. It hissed, affronted, and leaped up onto the couch, curling down with its tail flicking back and forth as it regarded them.

"Of course I care, Draco," Granger said in a softer voice.

He wished she would stop using his given name. It felt too intimate.

"You don't," he accused. "You're only worried about what will happen if they find out about the Horcruxes."

"That's not the only reason!" she said, offended. Her arms were straight down at her sides, hands clenched into fists.

"Could've fooled me," he spat. "The way you just let Weasley kiss you, as though you really want him -"

"You don't know what I want, Malfoy, you don't know anything about me and Ron."

"No, Granger, _you_ don't know what you want," he stated. "You're angry that I did and angry that I didn't at the same time."

" _You confused me!"_

Draco ignored her. "Are you telling me you _do_ want him? You want him to be your _boyfriend?_ "

Granger raised her chin. "It's not your business, is it?"

"I'm _making_ it my business," Draco fired back. "And for the record, you're contradicting yourself again. First, you're all ' _Of course I care, Draco,'_ and then it's right back to ' _it's not your business.'_ You obviously can't decide how you feel. Tell me you want Weasley, Granger. Tell me you really, _really_ want him."

"I…"

Draco cocked an eyebrow.

"Fine. Maybe I don't know how I feel about Ron," she conceded.

"So _why_ did you let him kiss you?" Draco asked enviously. _Fuck it all,_ he thought, watching her keenly even as he cursed himself. He was trying to steer them in a way he could dominate and failed miserably. What was it about this stupid chit that made him spout off like this?

"I don't know, Malfoy! I don't know. He asked me to go to Hogsmeade with him, like a date, and I said yes -"

"Hogsmeade? Honestly, Granger? Are you going to go to Madame Puddifoot's with him and sip tea and talk about your feelings?"

"I - _no,_ that's not -"

"How do you know we're even going to be _allowed_ to go to Hogsmeade?"

"That's not the _point!"_ she exclaimed, hair flying back and forth as she shook her head. "I liked Ron for a long time, alright? I liked him _a lot,_ actually, until… until last year. I just don't think I should disregard him as though he doesn't mean anything to me. It wouldn't be fair."

"Why? Why did you stop liking him so much?" Draco asked, taking rapid hold of her honesty and promptly exposing it.

Granger's shoulders fell and she stared at him, as though debating whether to tell him the truth.

"Because he started dating Lavender," she answered after a moment. "He and I were bickering - we're always bickering - and he was jealous of Cormac McLaggen. So he started dating Lavender, foul as she is, and he deliberately flaunted it in front of me so he could hurt my feelings. After that… it was hard to look at him the same way."

Draco scoffed, rolling his eyes at the ceiling. "And you're actually concerned about being _fair_ to him? After what he did, you're going to let him take you to Hogsmeade on a date? What, exactly, makes you think he's going to be any more considerate toward your emotions now?"

"What's the alternative, Malfoy?" she asked furiously, eyes sparkling in her anger. "The boy who _still_ calls me a Mudblood? Are you trying to say that _you're_ more considerate than Ron?"

"I was - _am -_ more considerate than he is in a very important way," Draco told her, neatly sidestepping her accusation. "I didn't back off to confuse you, Granger, I did it to spare you the consequences of making a rash decision -"

"Honestly? Are you going to act like you really care that much about me? You're going to act like it would lead to, what? A relationship? At least Ron wouldn't try to sleep with me outside of one!"

Draco laughed at that. "You are really more blind than I thought you were. Weasley left Brown just as soon as he fucked her."

Granger took a step back, and on her face was positively written with shock. "That's not true. He didn't sleep with her," she denied, but Draco could hear the uncertainty in her voice. Draco had hurt her with this revelation, he realized, and the thought only propelled his jealousy further. Why did she care so much whether or not Weasley and Brown had slept together?

"Did you forget that Pansy was my girlfriend?" Draco carried on. "The biggest gossip in the entire school? Weasley fucked her and then didn't speak to her after that. _Everyone_ heard about it."

"You're lying," she concluded. "Ron wouldn't do that."

Draco smirked. "Ask him. Ask him how it happened."

Granger was silent, the beautiful line of her jaw set and her eyebrows dipping toward each other slightly.

Draco crossed the common room and, when she made no effort to move away from him, took Granger by the waist, pulling her body toward his before he kissed her, waiting and almost hoping that she would push him away. When she didn't, Draco slid his hands to her hips as he angled his head so he could lean into her. He breathed in her smell greedily - some sort of spice… was it cinnamon? It didn't matter, really, because her arms curled around his neck and Draco could hardly resist the allure of her yielding body. He backed her against the sill of the window and tangled his fingers in her hair, then pulled away.

"I'm not saying I want a relationship, Granger," he said honestly. "You wouldn't know what to do with one if I did."

He kissed her again, wondering how he was going to muster up the willpower to separate himself from her when her fingers felt so amazing running through his hair. At last, he broke their kiss and looked down at her, at her inviting lip, her searching, golden eyes, and the pink flush in her creamy skin.

"But whatever I want - whatever _you_ want... it's not going to happen while you're allowing a Weasel to touch you," he promised.

Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, and he saw indignance battle with desire. She didn't respond, and he felt his heart sink minutely because she wasn't going to give in. She wouldn't give him what she wanted and Draco had no idea how to force it from her.

"Break it off, Granger," he said before he kissed her again. "Tell him you're not going to Hogsmeade with him. Tell him you don't want him."

"I don't know if I can," she confessed, and Draco chuckled in response.

He leaned down and kissed her slowly, pulling her lip into his mouth before he disengaged her arms from his neck, taking a short step backward as he did.

"When you're sure, Granger. Let me know."

.

* * *

.

Defense Against the Dark Arts was one of two classes that Draco didn't share with her. Nearly everyone in the year was taking it, except for most of the Slytherin house. Only Blaise, Tracey and Daphne were in the lesson with Draco, and because there were so few of them, they had been paired with Hufflepuff. Before, Draco had been relieved to have a class where wasn't in the same room with the Golden bloody Trio… now he resented it. He knew that Granger would be in Herbology now, probably sitting right next to Ron-fucking-Weasley, laughing at his jokes while he made doe-eyes at her.

The bitch was lying to herself and it was infuriating. No, he didn't want a relationship with a Muggleborn, but did that really make a difference? She was hanging onto sentiments which really had nothing at all to do with what had sparked between them. And anyway, Weasley was hardly better after he'd disregarded Lavender Brown, but Granger evidently hadn't known about that at all. At least Draco wouldn't have tried to keep up a false pretense.

The door opened with a signature _bang!_ that was reminiscent of a certain potions dungeon not-so-long-ago, and Severus Snape swooped into the classroom in his usual manner, black robes billowing behind him when he strode with purpose to his desk. He turned to them sharply, holding his wand in one hand while he rested the tip of it in the other.

"The Patronus Charm," he said unceremoniously. "What is it?"

Ernie Macmillan raised his hand, and Snape's eyes darted over to him, a silent permission to speak. "It's like a repellant," the Hufflepuff answered. "It creates a guardian made of light that will protect you."

Snape nodded. "And what kind of enemies will the Patronus charm protect you from?"

Macmillan raised his hand and, when no one else volunteered, Snape eyed him again.

"Almost anything that's dark," Macmillan said promptly. "Dementors especially."

"What else?"

Hannah Abbott raised her hand. "Lethifolds."

"Which you would encounter in what area of the world?"

"In tropical climates only," Abbott said.

Snape turned to address the rest of the class. "The Patronus Charm can be used against many types of enemies. For Dementors and Lethifolds, however, a Patronus is the sole defense. It is an immensely complicated spell, and it requires exceptional skill. That being said, most of you will not be able to produce one, even after weeks of practice."

 _Severus Snape, encouraging as always._

"Nevertheless," he continued. "You shall attempt to master the charm, as there may soon come a time when you will need it to save your lives."

The class was quiet, and not only in the way that it normally was when Snape was teaching. The hush that fell over the room was heavy with foreboding as the students let his statement sink in. It was a warning, one that sent Draco's mind spiraling to Azkaban and to the incident before his fifth year when Potter had been attacked by rogue Dementors in Little Whinging. Well, everyone else had called them 'rogue.' Even then, Lucius had told Draco better.

After the pause, Snape went on. "A Patronus is, first and foremost, created from positive energy. It, therefore, takes positive energy within yourself to produce it. You will focus on a single, very happy memory as you say the incantation, and _if_ you are a skilled enough witch or wizard, the Patronus will form and assault your attacker."

Snape looked directly at Macmillan. "Demonstrate," he ordered, and Macmillan rose from his seat and approached the center of the classroom. The student closed his eyes, holding his wand aloft. He appeared to be concentrating very hard, and Draco wondered why Snape had chosen Macmillan… surely this half-rate Hufflepuff could not successfully conjure a Patronus.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ Macmillan said, and a silver mist protruded from the end of his wand, floating in the space directly in front of him before vanishing. Snape sneered.

"This is not a Corporeal Patronus," he clarified. "This form may protect you against minor enemies, but it is not strong enough to repel something as vile and powerful as a Dementor. Again!"

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ Macmillan shouted, and the silvery shape of a boar erupted from his wand, trotting happily in midair. The boar silently circled around Macmillan, who was grinning quite smugly. Draco was astonished. How was Ernie Macmillan able to produce a bloody Patronus? As far as Draco knew, Macmillan had always maintained very high marks… but it took more than textbook intelligence to do such advanced magic.

 _Well,_ he decided. _If he can do it…_

"Five points to Hufflepuff," Snape said grudgingly, then to the rest of the class, "begin."

.

* * *

.

None of the Slytherins had been able to produce a Patronus by the end of the lesson. Blaise and Draco had come close, having managed to conjure up the white mist that Macmillan had first achieved. Tracey and Daphne, however, had not even been able to create so much as a wisp of light during the entire class.

The four of them had emerged from the classroom grumbling resentfully amongst themselves as they headed to their next classes.

"I don't suppose it's that bad," Daphne said encouragingly. "Almost no one managed it in the end."

"Hannah Abbott did," Blaise reminded her.

"If the fucking Hufflepuffs can do it, so can we," Draco said spitefully.

"Right," Tracey agreed. "It'll take more practice, is all. Snape said it was a really difficult charm... "

"What I'd like to know is how Macmillan already knew how to do it," Blaise complained as he and Draco broke away from the girls and headed toward the dungeons. "What situation has that idiot ever been in that would require one? It's never been taught before."

Draco shrugged. "You never know. He's a pureblood, maybe his parents taught him."

In Potions, Draco sat directly behind Granger, who paired with fucking Weasley. Potter shared a table with the Patil twin, and Draco, naturally, had paired with Blaise. He refused to look to his right, where he knew he would see Theo sitting next to Michael Corner.

"Today we're brewing Murtlap Essence," Slughorn announced as he lumbered into the classroom. "It is not extremely difficult but is NEWT level, nonetheless. Can anyone tell me what Murtlap Essence is used for?"

Granger raised her hand.

"It's used to soothe and heal wounds," she answered.

"Very good, Miss Granger," Slughorn acknowledged. "You'll be working with partners. Instructions are on the board, and ten points will go to the most accurately brewed potion in the class." Slughorn was beaming as though ten points was an especially lucrative reward.

Draco glared at the back of Granger's head, unsure if he should be more angry with Weasley for sitting next to her, or with Granger for sitting next to him.

Draco watched the two Gryffindors as the idiot handed her a strainer, which she took gently from his hand, smiling. Draco scowled then realized abruptly that Blaise was staring at him with a curious expression, one eyebrow raised.

 _Fuck,_ he thought. "Made your proposal, yet, Weasley?" Draco jabbed.

Both Gryffindors turned around, Weasley looking angry while Granger appeared merely irritated. "Mind your own damn business, Malfoy," Weasley grumbled defensively.

"Too poor to afford a ring, I expect."

"Not even your family has enough money for what she's worth."

"That what you told Lavender Brown to get her in bed?" Draco countered with a grin. Weasley glared but apparently could not think of a good response.

Granger did not look at Weasley for the rest of the lesson.

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	14. The Come and Go Room

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* * *

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"Hermione, wait! _Hermione!"_

Normally, she would never have brewed the Murtlap Essence by herself ( _how would Ron learn?_ ) but the alternative would've meant speaking to him… which Hermione was not willing to do just now. So, after clipping more than a few "hush" and "leave me alone" remarks during the session, and after having done the work entirely on her own, she'd packed up early and hurried out of the classroom as soon as the bell rang. She took quick, long strides through the corridors, weaving in and out of the hallway traffic in a fruitless effort to evade Ron, who was chasing her adamantly.

"Hermione!" he called again. His voice was now closer than before, and the sound set her teeth on edge.

"Leave me alone, Ron," Hermione grumbled. Just how many times _did_ a woman have to say those words before a man got the point?

By the time she made it up the stairs and into the entrance hall, Ron's hand closed around her forearm and halted her progression. Reluctantly, she turned toward him and met his anxious blue eyes with a wary stare.

"Hermione, listen, please," Ron begged. "It's not true, what Malfoy said. It isn't true."

"You didn't sleep with her?" Hermione thought she saw a glimmer of certainty flash in Ron's expression and knew immediately that her face had been too revealing. He'd seen the hope there, was latching onto it and using it to appeal to her further.

"That's not how it happened. It wasn't like that," Ron insisted.

Zabini and Malfoy strolled casually past them, the former snickering and the latter looking pointedly down at Ron's hand, which was still circling Hermione's arm. Faltering under Malfoy's arched brows, Hermione wrenched away from Ron's grip. The ginger-haired wizard must have taken it to mean that she was still angry with him, for he adopted an apologetic expression and reached for her shoulder.

"Hermione, can we please talk?" he pled. "If you just listen, I can explain everything."

"We'll be late for Transfiguration," Hermione replied stiffly, glancing over her shoulder. She was grateful to see that Malfoy had gone, and even more grateful that Ron had missed the silent exchange between the Head boy and girl.

"It doesn't have to be right now. Later, maybe? I can come to your common room."

"No," she said quickly, knowing that bringing Ron to her common room would cause problems with Malfoy… and Hermione had quite enough of those already.

"I promise if you just hear me out you'll understand. It's not what you think it is," he implored, but Hermione had, quite suddenly, lost interest in whatever he was saying.

Over Ron's shoulder, Theodore Nott was ascending the staircase, heading not _toward_ McGonagall's classroom but _away_ from it.

"Look -" Hermione began, but Ron interrupted her.

"Hermione, please -"

" _No,_ Ron," she whispered, pointing at the Slytherin boy beyond him. " _Look!"_

Ron turned just in time to watch Nott make the corner and disappear from view. Without waiting so much as a beat, Ron rushed to follow after him, but Hermione grabbed a fistful of his robes and jerked him back.

"We have to see what he's doing!" Ron exclaimed, glaring at her.

"Be still," she said bossily, then tapped him on the head with her wand. Ron's face and body slowly faded from view, taking on the exact color and texture of the staircase behind him. Hermione Disillusioned herself as well, shivering a bit when the chilling sensation tingled down her spine. "Let's go."

Nott was climbing the Grand Staircase at a leisurely speed, apparently trying to appear as though he was not doing anything wrong at all. But Hermione knew that Nott was supposed to be on his way to NEWT Transfiguration, and what reason did the newly Marked Death Eater have for skiving off other than to achieve his own directives?

Hermione and Ron matched his pace, keeping a far enough distance that Nott wouldn't be able to hear their footsteps. He must have sensed them, however, for he paused just before the fifth-floor landing and turned to look behind. Thinking quickly, Hermione grabbed at Ron's Disillusioned arm to stop him, knowing that if they moved Nott was more likely to see the barely-visible rift that was the true outline of their bodies. Both held their breath, but after a long, torturous moment, Nott continued upward.

Hermione had an awful feeling that she knew exactly where he was going to lead them. Her suspicions were proven correct when Nott got off at the Seventh Floor. The two Gryffindors followed, having to jump when, just as they were about to reach the landing, the staircase decided to move.

Ron apparently covered the gap with no problems, but Hermione was not so graceful. Her foot came down wrong on the stone floor, twisting at an odd angle as she fell forward onto her knees with a loud and fearful gasp.

Despite the fact that he was at least ten yards ahead, Nott whipped around, narrowing his eyes in their direction. Scowling, he strode toward the landing with his wand held aloft. Hermione thought he was going to fire a hex of some sort, but he was moving too quickly and coming far too close for that to be the case.

She was stock-still while Nott approached her, not daring to move even an inch. But then he lifted his knee toward his own chest, and the bottom of his shoe was coming down _fast_ at her face. Heart pumping madly, she scrambled to her left with barely enough space to avoid Nott's vicious kick, which, if it had connected, would have sent her flying backward off the landing with no staircase to break her fall.

Terrified, Hermione clung to the stone banister and watched as Nott's pale green eyes darted around the area in front of him, searching for signs that someone was there who shouldn't be. He spun around on the spot, his fist clenching and unclenching his wand as he looked wildly around the corridor.

Hermione was shaking, using one invisible hand to cover her mouth so that she would not give away her position.

Nott was close, so close - it would only take a step to his right and he would find her - and then what would he do? Toss her seven floors down, as he had first intended when he kicked at empty air?

At long last, Nott seemed to feel that he was alone after all. He pocketed his wand and, with one last glance over his shoulder, marched back down the corridor. Trembling, Hermione got to her feet and followed, then watched as Nott stopped in front a blank expanse of wall and walked back and forth in front of it until a door materialized out of nowhere.

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* * *

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"It's sixth year all over again," Ron said as they trotted down the Grand Staircase.

"It's not," Hermione argued. "It's much, much worse. Didn't you see the way he kicked, thinking someone was there? If he would have got me, I'd've been dead, Ron. You couldn't see it, obviously, but I was _right there,_ I moved _just_ in time to avoid it. He meant to kill whoever was following him. Malfoy would never have gone that far."

"You're right, I guess…" Ron muttered, glaring at the steps as he walked. "What do you suppose he's doing in there?"

Hermione gave a short laugh. "It could be anything. We wouldn't know, would we?"

"You don't think it's another Vanishing Cabinet, do you?"

"No," she said, trying to resist the urge to roll her eyes. "Dumbledore said at the start-of-term Feast that he got rid of it."

Ron screwed up his face. "I don't remember that."

"He didn't say that _exactly._ He just implied it. He said that 'the means by which the Death Eaters got into the castle have been rectified.' Or something."

"Oh. Right." Ron nodded. "Well, there's got to be a way to find out what he's getting up to in there. It can't be anything good."

 _Obviously._

"Harry tried all last year to figure out what Malfoy was doing in the Room of Requirement, Ron. It's impossible. If we _knew_ what Room he was using, and we asked for _exactly_ the same thing, maybe it would let us in… maybe. But even that's a rather far stretch," she said thoughtfully as they waited for the staircase to come round to their landing. "He could easily just tell the Room to make sure no one could find him in there."

"We can't just do _nothing_ , Hermione -"

"I didn't _say_ we weren't going to do anything," Hermione snapped impatiently. "I've just got to think of a different way to go about it. We need to talk to Harry."

Ron looked injured by her tone, but Hermione kept walking and ignored his hurt expression.

"Listen, Hermione, maybe we can talk now?" Ron offered.

She scoffed. "I might be willing to be late to class so we can follow a Death Eater, Ronald, but I'm certainly not going to skive off Transfiguration so we can have a heart-to-heart about yours and Lavender's sex life."

"Later, then. After lessons. I can meet you at your common room."

"That's not really a good idea, is it, considering Malfoy's the one who brought it up in the first place?"

"You're right," Ron conceded after a moment. "The courtyard, then. After the last bell?

"Fine."

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* * *

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"How nice of you two to finally join us," Professor McGonagall said crisply. "Twenty points from Gryffindor."

"Sorry, Professor," Ron and Hermione apologized together.

Her cheeks flushed hotly as every student in the room turned to observe them file in and head for the only two seats that were still available. Thankfully, Harry seemed to have saved the seat next to him, and Hermione rushed ahead to beat Ron to it.

She refused to look anywhere but forward as she slid into the chair, knowing that she would see her fellow housemates glaring shamelessly at her for daring to get points taken. In her peripheral vision, Hermione saw Harry's inquiring eyebrow but gave one tiny shake of her head. _Later._

"Now then, before we were rudely interrupted, we were discussing human transfiguration," McGonagall explained, turning from the class to walk around to the other side of her desk. "After three weeks of practice, most of you were able to turn your classmate's hand into a horse's hoof. However, it is much easier to transfigure another witch or wizard than it is to transfigure yourself. Because you are risking your own body, it is much harder to keep a level head, which is extremely important if you want to keep your limbs in proper working order.

"I had not originally planned to begin transfiguring your own body parts until late next month, but because I was unexpectedly made Headmistress, we are beginning today. I do not know when I shall be able to find a professor who is qualified to take my place, and I believe it is prudent to teach you as much as possible while I search for one. You will be using the same incantation to turn your own hand into a horse's hoof."

McGonagall extended her arm and, pointing her wand, demonstrated. Her hand transformed easily into a black hoof before she reversed the spell with the practiced fluency of an accomplished transfigurer.

"It is important to remember that you must concentrate very hard on what you are attempting. If you fail to do so, you may very well be unable to rectify your mistake. You may begin."

As their professor sank into her chair and began scribbling on some parchment, Harry leaned closer to Hermione.

"What was that all about?" he asked in a low whisper. "I heard what Malfoy said in Potions. Do you really believe it?"

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "I don't suppose Ron mentioned anything about it to you, then?"

Harry shook his head. "I'm dating his sister… we don't really talk about girls that often, Hermione."

"I don't know what to believe. Ron said it didn't happen like that. Like Malfoy's trying to make it seem like something it wasn't," she told him, then pointed her wand at her own hand and transfigured it improperly: her hand took on the same stiffness that a hoof would possess, but its shape did not change at all. " _Reparifarge."_ Her hand returned to normal.

"It wouldn't be the first time Malfoy lied about something to get under your skin," Harry reasoned as he attempted his own transfiguration.

"True," she agreed. "But think about it. Lavender was heartbroken when they split up, wasn't she? And Ron had been so awkward after it happened… it's not as though it wouldn't fit."

"You're going to base your relationship with Ron on something that _Malfoy_ said?" Harry reproached.

"We're going to talk about it after the last bell," she said.

"What? You were more than _twenty minutes_ late to class! What were you two doing the entire time?"

Hermione cast a furtive glance toward McGonagall and, once she decided the professor was not paying attention, cast a wordless _Muffliato._ Harry seemed to recognize the subtle wand movement, for he tilted his head warily as though she was about to deliver some very bad news.

Trying to look inconspicuous, Hermione pretended to focus on transfiguring her hand rather than looking Harry in the eye. Hopefully, anyone who took notice would merely think the pair of them were chatting happily about the weather while they worked. Harry followed her lead and she related everything to him, from catching Nott on the Grand Staircase after curfew to Disillusioning themselves so they could follow him up to the seventh floor, to the Room of Requirement, and, of course, Nott's attempt to kick his potential tail off the seventh-floor landing.

"Don't try to follow him anymore, Hermione," Harry said firmly.

Hermione turned and fixed him with a withering glare, which Harry recoiled from ever so slightly.

"I'm just saying, he's obviously dangerous if he was going to kick someone from that kind of height. And at _school_."

"You're right, Harry," she retorted sarcastically. "I have no idea what I would do in a _dangerous situation_ , poor, helpless girl that I am."

"Don't, Hermione. You shouldn't put yourself in a position like that. I don't know what I'd do if -"

"I'll stop when _you_ stop," she interrupted, raising her chin.

Both friends stared at each other for a long moment, and when neither of them backed down, Hermione saw the edge of Harry's mouth twitch.

"Headstrong as ever, I see," he noted with a grin.

Hermione hummed her agreement and transfigured her own hand neatly into a horse's hoof.

"I'll keep track of him on the map," he said. "You can bet that whatever he's doing is to help Voldemort. Not another Vanishing Cabinet, but… something else. I dunno."

"Unless he's working on trying to off Malfoy," she reminded him.

"But Pansy Parkinson's a Death Eater, too. I don't think Voldemort would have both of them working on the same thing. He's too thorough for that. Nott's probably trying to do something more important."

"Hmm. You may be right..."

"You know, if we could just leave here and find the Horcruxes, we could end this, Hermione, and it would all be over. We wouldn't have to -"

"Harry, please, just wait a bit longer. Let me do some more research."

Harry looked furious. "How much longer would you have me wait? Every day he's getting stronger, and the stronger he gets the less of a chance we have of defeating him."

She turned and gave him a level stare. "Just let me figure out something about Ravenclaw. Once we figure out what it might be, then we'll go. Alright? I promise. If we begin traveling abroad, I won't have access to the same resources as I have here."

Hermione glanced up and realized that Professor McGonagall was staring at both of them, looking as though there was a reprimand on the tip of her tongue. Hermione soundlessly cast _Finite_ to stop the Silencing Charm and elbowed Harry, who jerked his head up and resumed trying to transfigure his hand at once.

In his haste, Harry mispronounced the incantation and his hand transformed into some kind of scaley talon that began clawing at his face of its own accord. He leaped out of his seat and struggled to keep the aggressive member as far from his body as he could, but the talon was proving to be stronger than he was.

" _Reparifarge!_ " Hermione rushed out, and Harry's hand returned to its normal state. He exhaled a breath of obvious relief, and McGonagall tutted loudly from her desk.

In the back of the classroom, the Slytherins were laughing uproariously. She turned around in her chair to rebuke them all, but as soon as she saw Malfoy, the words died before they could leave her. Their gazes found one another's and the smirk faded slowly from his face. The blond wizard lifted his chin, staring expressionlessly as he regarded her through cool, gray eyes.

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* * *

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Ron was waiting for her in the courtyard when she finally made her way down from Ancient Runes. She stepped out into the sunlight, and Ron's face brightened visibly as he stood from the stone bench to greet her. She offered him a soft smile, knowing that Malfoy would never look at her the way Ron just had, all lopsided grins and sparkling blue eyes and admiration and trust.

"Hey," he said simply.

"Hi," she returned, hating how easy it was to be charmed by Ron's endearing modesty. "Enjoyed your free hour, I suppose?"

"Probably enjoyed being off as much as you enjoyed being in class," he admitted.

She smiled and looked down, not sure what to say.

Ron cleared his throat. "D'you want to, er, sit?"

"Right, of course," she said awkwardly, letting her bag drop gently to the ground as she lowered herself onto the bench.

"I don't really know where to start," he hesitated, scratching the back of his neck as he sat next to her. His knees were angled in her direction, but her own were angled straight forward.

Hermione took a deep breath. "What Malfoy said in class, it wasn't… it wasn't the first time I heard something about you and Lavender."

Ron waited, and Hermione went on.

"I heard that you slept with Lavender and never spoke to her again."

"Who said that?" Ron asked irately. "Malfoy?"

"No!" she lied.

"Who, then?"

"A… girl," she evaded. "It was a girl who told me."

Ron shook his head. "That's not true, Hermione, I'd never - that's not how it happened at _all._ "

"But you did sleep with her?"

Ron's eyes darted briefly away, but he met her gaze resolutely. "I'm not going to lie to you, Hermione. Yea, we slept together."

She didn't know why her heart had plummeted so heavily into her stomach. It didn't matter that much, really… just because _she_ was a virgin didn't mean everyone else had to be, too. It wouldn't - _shouldn't_ \- affect her relationships. The past was the past, after all. Still, it hurt to know that the girl Ron had only dated to make Hermione jealous had turned into something so much more intimate, and all the time it was going on, Hermione herself had been so… upset at Ron. Upset and lonely. Sad. And meanwhile, while Hermione had been trying not to cry when she saw them together flaunting their relationship, Ron was sleeping with Lavender.

The fact that he'd hurt her just to make her jealous was not a new fact, but what lengths he'd actually gone to in order to achieve it was.

"I see," Hermione looked at her shoes. "That's not the problem. It doesn't bother me _that_ much. It wouldn't be logical since that was before and this is now. But what about the rest of it?"

Ron seemed to be immensely relieved at her initial concession. He had recovered some hopefulness in his voice, as though knowing that she'd be okay with the fact they'd slept together was enough for him to regain his footing. "I don't know who told you that, Hermione, but it's rubbish," he said urgently. "We hadn't been together, you know, a long time or anything. A few months, maybe. But we'd been sleeping together since the beginning of it."

"Define 'beginning," she said, eyebrows raised.

"You know, the beginning. Like, the night after the Quidditch match. The beginning," he clarified.

"The _first_ night?" Hermione asked, appalled. "That's a bit… soon, isn't it?"

Ron gave a one-shouldered shrug. "I guess, but we'd known each other for five years, hadn't we? It's not like I was a stranger to her. We'd always got on pretty well, and, I guess - well, she wanted to."

"You're saying she came onto you," Hermione said doubtfully.

"No, no," he said quickly. "But, it sort of just, happened? You know, one thing led to another and all that. Hermione, my point is that I didn't just, er, have sex with her and then run off."

Hermione bit her lip. "But… but didn't you feel some sort of obligation toward her? You ignored her for a long time. Avoiding her, pretending you were asleep when she came to visit. You can't say that you didn't disregard her, Ron."

Ron had enough grace to look ashamed. "I didn't mean for it to happen that way, Hermione," he explained sheepishly, eyes cast downward. "I mean, after a while it became pretty obvious we weren't good for each other. She got so… well, clingy. She was obsessed, wasn't she?"

"Who can blame her, Ron?" Hermione countered, not sure why she was defending Lavender in the first place. "After you sleep with a person, it's different, right?"

"Hermione, I only started dating her to make you jealous. Because of Cormac McLaggen -" Snarl. "- and that stupid party and all. I really liked _you._ "

"And you thought that you ought to just go on and have sex with her, did you? May as well, right, if you can, then why not?"

"No! That's not how it was!"

"Then how _was_ it, Ron?"

"I -... I don't know how to explain it, Hermione," Ron confessed. "You know I'm not great with words. There's not anything I can do to change what I did, but I'm trying for something better now. I don't want to repeat what happened with Lavender. I've liked you for years, Hermione, and I think you've known that for a while. I asked you to go to Hogsmeade because I thought… well, I thought that we could give it a shot, you know?"

Hermione looked away, focusing on one of the courtyard's statues as though it was a faraway distance. "I don't know, Ron. I'm just not sure. How can I be sure, after how you treated me before? After how you treated Lavender? How do I know I won't turn out just like her?"

"You're not like her," Ron insisted, and Hermione turned to face him. He reached forward and clumsily brushed a stray curl behind her ear, letting the rough pad of his thumb brush her cheek. She made no move to stop him, but in that moment, the stark differences between Ron and Malfoy seemed to assault her all at once.

Malfoy with his poise and dexterous hands; Ron with his sweetness and fumbling touch.

Malfoy with his refined, aristocratic beauty, his doll-like skin and white-blond hair and his thin Seeker's build; Ron with his subtle handsomeness, vivid red hair and freckles and easy smiles.

Malfoy with his cool air of confidence and fast intelligence; Ron with his understated self-esteem issues and unrealized potential.

She couldn't even compare these two boys... men, really. Men because of what they'd both been through and what they had _yet_ to go through, men because of what the weight of the war had done to them and still posed to do. How could she presume to compare them when they were nothing at all alike?

Hermione felt a pang of guilt tear at her conscience. How could she compare them, indeed? She had scolded Ron for how he had treated Lavender, had questioned _his_ motives when it was clear that Malfoy had no purer intentions to speak of. How dare Hermione compare them when they weren't offering her the same things?

Malfoy wasn't offering love. He wasn't offering companionship. He wasn't offering her his comfort, his trust, or his future. Ron was offering _all_ of these things and more; Ron was offering as much as he had to give.

How could Hermione not be _sure?_

The truth was that Draco Malfoy should not even be in league with Ron Weasley at all. If Malfoy hadn't backed her against a table and initiated this awful mess, would she still be questioning how she felt about Ron?

Hermione had been angry with Ron about Lavender, yes… that was true.

But wasn't it possible that if Malfoy had not come crashing into the picture, Hermione may have been willing to forgive Ron for how he had made her feel? Was it only because of Malfoy that she was not readily able to hand herself over to the boy whom she had fancied for so long?

Malfoy was as foul as he was cunning, as cunning as he was handsome, as handsome as he was dangerous. Was she really going to cheat herself out of what could be a fulfilling relationship because Malfoy had made her question herself?

And yet…

"Kiss me, Ron," Hermione said abruptly.

Ron looked surprised, but only hesitated for a moment before one hand slid behind her neck and he leaned into her. Their lips met and Hermione closed her eyes, feeling as though she was floating calmly across a flat expanse of water. Drifting.

Drifting, but not falling… not like the way she felt when Malfoy kissed her, like the floor was going to give way at any moment with no one but him to hold her upright.

Ron's kiss was sweet and placid and… nice. Nothing like Malfoy's kiss, which was heated and demanding and wanting and _knowing._

Ron pulled gently away from her and Hermione gave him a sad smile.

"Let's wait, okay?" she asked quietly. "Can we wait?"

"Of course, we can wait, Hermione, if that's what you want."

"Let's wait until Hogsmeade," she said. "Then we'll talk."

.

* * *

.

Hermione didn't know what she expected to see when she climbed through the portrait hole after dinner, but it wasn't Draco Malfoy standing in the middle of the common room trying to cast defensive magic.

She stopped in the archway, tilting her head as Malfoy shouted, " _Expecto Patronum!"_

A silvery puff of shining light drifted from his wand and then faded into nothing, and Malfoy swore loudly. He kicked the foot of the couch and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

"What are you doing?" Hermione asked curiously, trying not to smile.

Malfoy turned quickly, his wand trained on her as though expecting some sort of attack. Hermione raised her hands up to her shoulders, and he slowly lowered his wand. "I didn't hear you come in," he muttered and turned away.

She crossed the room and dropped her bag into the armchair. "Why are you trying to cast a Patronus?"

"You haven't been to Defense Against the Dark Arts yet," he stated. "Snape's having us learn them."

Hermione gaped. "In class? You mean everyone's doing them?"

Malfoy grunted a confirmation.

"But that's - that's _really_ dangerous. If someone who's really evil tries to cast a Patronus, it'll -"

"Destroy them. With maggots," Malfoy finished for her. "Yes, I _know_. We read the chapter, Granger."

Hermione still could not believe it. "Who else is in your DADA lesson? Which Slytherins?"

"Not Pansy or Theo," he answered, still facing away from her. "And not Crabbe and Goyle either. I guess they didn't feel that they needed to take the class."

She was silent for a moment, resting one hand on the back of the armchair and the other on her hip. "You know, Harry can help you with the Patronus."

Malfoy turned to glare at her. "I'm not asking fucking Potter, Granger."

He was still wearing his uniform, absent of the Hogwarts robe and vest. His tie lay discarded on the coffee table, his Oxford was loose around the neck where the buttons had been undone, and his sleeves were rolled up past his elbows. Now that his entire body was turned toward her, she could see the glaring black tattoo on his arm, the livid and angry-looking Dark Mark that stood out glaringly against his pale skin. Her eyes were drawn immediately to it, and whatever response she'd had ready for him caught in her throat.

She knew what one looked like, had seen pictures of it in history textbooks, had seen the _Morsmordre_ curse hanging ominously in the sky, but she had never actually _seen_ one on a person's skin. It was ugly. Ugly and dark and menacing.

"Didn't your mother ever teach you that it's rude to stare?" Malfoy sneered.

Hermione looked up. "I just - I'm sorry. I've never actually seen it before, not in person."

"You knew it was there."

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Anyway," she said bracingly. "You _should_ ask Harry to teach you. He was able to cast one by our third year. He taught a bunch of us -"

" _That's_ why Macmillan was able to produce one?" he asked incredulously. "That stupid Hufflepuff can cast one because _Potter_ taught him how?"

"Yes," Hermione confirmed. "In fifth year. You remember, being part of the Inquisitorial Squad that broke us all up."

Malfoy grumbled something, then his eyes found hers abruptly. "Do it," he ordered. "Cast it."

She focused on her parents, a memory of the three of them vacationing in the Forest of Dean. The picture floated into her mind's eye: her mother smiling, Hermione laughing as her father struggled to light a campfire just as the sun was fading in the background, fumbling with the tinder as Hermione apologized that she couldn't use underage magic. She focused on her mother's joyful giggling and her father's thin, handsome face, the belonging she felt just _being_ with them after having been away at school for so long…

But a deep sorrow came over her as she said the incantation, realizing suddenly that she may well never see her parents again. A misty vapor spilled half-heartedly from her wand and then disappeared. Hermione looked up at Malfoy but soon averted her eyes, hoping that he would not catch the profound sadness there.

Hermione cleared her throat and instead remembered Harry, Ron, and herself at the Burrow during Bill and Fleur's wedding, their elation that something so beautiful could be happening during such a dark time… their comfortable, relaxed happiness as they sat around one of the tables with Ginny, smiling and telling jokes and taking the mickey out of one another. She focused on Harry, with his contented grin and Ginny's returning smile of admiration; she focused on Ron as they danced together, with his misplaced, shuffling footwork and awkward laugh; Arthur and Molly's swelling pride that was so visible on their faces.

" _Expecto Patronum,"_ she said confidently, and her Otter sailed from the end of her wand, swimming happily through the air.

Crookshanks burst out suddenly from behind the couch and leaped up, clawing at the Otter which soon tried to attack him. Crookshanks hissed and, spitting madly, tore down the stairs toward the portrait hole. Hermione giggled and the Otter floated back toward her, circling around her shoulders gracefully.

Malfoy arched a resentful eyebrow, and Hermione was struck suddenly with how handsome he looked even while he was brooding. The angular planes of his face were so symmetrical he might have been a painting, a likeness of beauty caught in time by a particularly skilled artist. His fair coloring and regal demeanor were… arresting, and even though his arm was marred with a war scar, he still managed to look immaculate with his loosened uniform and his hair so disheveled from having failed to cast a Patronus.

"Where were you during Transfiguration?" Malfoy asked, and Hermione was so startled by the break in her reverie that she almost jerked back. She was vaguely aware that her Otter had faded and then disappeared. Hermione tilted her head.

"Ron and I were following Theodore Nott," she answered honestly.

"I thought I told you not to do that," Malfoy said angrily.

Hermione arched one delicate eyebrow. "Lucky for me, then, that you're not any sort of authority when it comes to my actions."

"You're going to get yourself seriously hurt, Granger, you don't understand -"

"I do, actually," she began. "Ron and I Disillusioned ourselves and followed him all the way up to the seventh floor. But the staircase moved right before Ron and I made the landing, and we had to jump… I almost didn't make it. When I landed, I fell forward and gasped by mistake. I couldn't help it. Nott must have heard it because he came toward us and…"

Malfoy waited for her to finish. A muscle in the elegant line of his jaw twitched.

"...and he tried to kick whoever might have been following him off the edge of the landing. I didn't want to move at all because I was afraid he would see me, but when it became clear what he was going to do, I got out of the way. I barely made it in time. If he'd managed to kick me I'd've fallen down the Grand Staircase tower."

Malfoy growled. "Do you see now? Do you see that he's a threat? You'd probably be dead, Granger, you'd have fallen down as far as it took for another staircase to break your fall, _if_ there was another staircase to break your fall at the time. You could've hit the bloody _ground floor, and died._ "

"I realize that."

"And it would've looked like an _accident._ How much more is it going to take for you to see how serious this is -"

"I'm quite well versed in handling _serious_ situations, Malfoy. And by the way, since you forgot to even ask where Nott was going, he went into the Room of Requirement."

Malfoy's rant seemed to lose momentum. "You're sure?" he asked roughly, anger still lingering in his voice.

"Unless you know of another door that appears magically when you're in need of it, _yes._ "

Malfoy turned away and strode over to the window, bracing his hands against the sill and leaning toward the glass. He shook his pale blonde head. "I don't know what that means," he admitted in frustration. "And Weasley?"

Hermione stared determinedly at the back of his hair, knowing that he could see her reflection in the dark window. "You lied about him. What you said about Lavender isn't true."

"I'm sure that's what he told you," Malfoy snorted.

"Why are you trying to make me doubt him?" Hermione asked indignantly, but the wizard did not answer.

Turning to face her, he said, "You can do the Patronus charm. You can cast it."

"You want my help." Not a question but a statement.

Malfoy made a noncommittal sort of noise.

Hermione smiled superiorly. "Say it."

He rolled his eyes disdainfully, looking as though he were making a huge and very inconvenient concession. "Fine, Granger," he spat. "I need you to teach me how to cast the Patronus charm."

She tilted her chin up expectantly.

" _Please,"_ Malfoy said through his teeth.

"Of course, I'll help you, Malfoy," she responded primly. "All you had to do is ask."

She came round to the other side of the armchair and shrugged off her robe and un-did her tie.

"Can you please refrain from stripping, Granger?"

Hermione furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. "It's very advanced magic, Malfoy. You can hardly expect me to be able to teach you if I'm not comfortable."

"It's a distraction," he said flatly.

Hermione glared. "You'll just have to deal with it, then."

She felt suddenly exposed as Malfoy's eyes traveled over her, from the line of her jaw to the exposed skin of her neck, down the curve of her waist that was undefined beneath the Oxford, and then lower, to the hem of her skirt where it brushed her knees. The room felt suddenly hot - why was it hot?

"I take it you didn't tell Weasley to back off?" he asked as his eyes finally found their way back up to hers.

"I told him I wanted to wait until Hogsmeade," she replied, trying to keep her voice resolute and unaffected.

Malfoy gave that infuriating signature smirk and then raised his wand.

"Well, I suppose we'd better get started, then, hadn't we?"

.

* * *

 **A/N: I remember losing a reader at this point during the original writing of it. A guest was upset that I had to make Ron an asshole in order to facilitate the relationship between Draco and Hermione. Actually, Ron is always an asshole, albeit a loveable one. In the books, Ron is consistently written as someone who's rather emotionally abusive toward Hermione - but more than that, Ron's the obvious choice for her. Draco's the less obvious one, and I've created the natural doubts a girl like Hermione would or should have about him.**

 **Anyway, R &R. I love all of you. **


	15. Expecto Patronum

"You're not focusing hard enough."

"I'm _focusing_ as hard as I bloody well can!"

"Try it again... Stop _looking_ at me like that, Malfoy! I'm only trying to help!"

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

"No, no, you don't need to move your arm like that -"

" _I'm not!_ "

"Just listen! It's not a _wave_ , it's really much more simple."

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

"Er, no, that's not right either. You're kind of jabbing forward -"

"Do it again, Granger. Show me again."

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

"I did the exact same fucking thing!"

Sigh. "Malfoy, I can't help you if you don't want to be taught."

"Fine... Like this?"

"Yes! That's better!"

" _Expecto Patronum!_ … Fuck."

"I still think you aren't focusing hard enough -"

"Well if you'd put your bloody clothes on, maybe I could think properly."

"Oh, _please,_ Malfoy, my Hogwarts uniform is anything but risque."

"You're distracting me, Granger. Can't you go put on some Muggle jeans or something?"

"... Maybe this was a bad idea. I'm obviously not a very good teacher."

"Don't you even _think_ about quitting -"

"Malfoy, I think you should ask Harry. He's really good with this kind of thing -"

"No."

"But almost everyone who was in Dumbledore's Army was able to cast their Patronus when Harry was teaching them!"

"Granger, I've said _no._ "

"If you'd quit being so _stubborn -_ "

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

.

* * *

.

It wasn't until nearly one in the morning when the pair of them had finally gone to bed.

Draco had become so discouraged and frustrated that he'd had several outbursts, most of them involving ferocious attacks on the common room's innocent furniture. But to Granger's credit, she seemed more ready to give up on her own teaching abilities than to allow Draco, himself, to admit defeat. She'd kept saying _you just need to focus, that's all,_ although Draco wasn't sure how much harder he _could_ focus. He didn't know exactly how many times he tried to cast the charm (he'd stopped counting after 30,) but he had always used a different memory, some to do with his parents, others to do with Quidditch.

Every time, he failed. And now the excess expenditure of magic had exhausted him.

He hadn't even managed to make his silvery wisps of light _attempt_ to take form. They would waft casually in midair before promptly dying, leaving Draco not only extremely aggravated but self-conscious as well.

If two bloody Hufflepuffs had done it, Draco was _sure_ he could do it, too... there was just no way that those two imbeciles had bested him, especially when it came down to such advanced magic. It was inconceivable. When he told Granger as much, she had frowned and said something about Macmillan and Abbott being _gifted_ , or some such rubbish. And then maybe some other nonsense about house-unity. Draco hadn't been paying attention.

Finally, after being so drained that Draco felt that even lifting his wand would be too much work, they had both turned in, but not before agreeing to resume the next afternoon.

He had been much less patient during lessons as a result of it all. Most of Arithmancy was spent sulking and he'd wasted so much time watching the back of Granger's bushy head that he'd fallen behind on his charts. By the end of Herbology, Draco was been _covered_ in filth, which had caused his temper to skyrocket. Draco took it out completely on Tracey. So rude was he to her during lunch that Blaise had to physically intervene in order to stop her hitting Draco with a Bat-Bogey hex.

He slept through History of Magic afterward.

Finally, after the last lesson of the day, Draco was on his way back to the dorm. That's when he realized, almost too late, that he was being followed.

A dark first-year girl had been tailing him all the way up the Grand Staircase. If she had been from any other house but Slytherin, Draco may not have been quite as paranoid, but after he'd taken a detour on the sixth floor (just to be positive) he turned on his heel and approached her.

"What's your name?" he demanded, and the girl, shocked, took a tentative step back.

"Charlene Walters," she squeaked.

"Alright, Charlene, what are you doing on the sixth floor? Lessons are over. There's no reason for you to be up here. Are you lost?"

The obstinate little bitch lifted her chin and crossed her arms over her chest. "It's not curfew," she said. "I can go anywhere I please."

Draco laughed derisively. "Well, I'm the Head Boy, and I'm telling you to go back to the dungeons where you belong. And you'd do well to mind your attitude."

"You can't make me," she said defiantly.

"Perhaps not," Draco conceded, but after such a long, awful school day he was not in the mood to play games with this girl. He drew his wand.

Charlene's eyes went round, looking as though she was ready to scream, but it had taken less than a second for Draco to petrify her, freezing her in time with her mouth hanging comically open.

"Tell Pansy that she'll have to try harder than that," Draco quipped.

.

* * *

.

"You can't just go around petrifying first-years, Malfoy!" Granger shrieked, hair flying wildly as she shook her head.

"What would you have rather I did? Let her follow me here so she can go tell Pansy where our common room is?" Draco countered.

"You don't know for _sure_ she was following you!"

"She got off on the sixth floor after I did, Granger. It's a bit far from the dungeons when there aren't any more lessons for her to be going to. What do you suppose she was doing, admiring the artwork?"

"It doesn't matter. You didn't have to do something so _drastic_. I should give you a detention!" she admonished.

"We both know you're not going to do that."

She ignored him. "You had no excuse to do what you did."

Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Well, by all means, Granger, go on and head down to the sixth floor to put her right if you're so concerned. Then she can follow _you_ to the common room."

Granger could only sigh in response, her shoulders falling defeatedly. "I suppose you're right. I just hate having to live like this, always looking over my shoulder to make sure no one's following me here."

Draco sneered, eyeing her. "So sorry to be such an inconvenience."

"That's not what I meant," Granger said firmly, looking at him with a disconcerting directness. "There are much more important things to worry about than that. You're not an inconvenience, Malfoy."

There it was again. Her ability to disarm him using the simplest of statements. Draco did not understand how she could be so honest, even with a person like him, who had always been horrible to her and in fact went out of his way to make her miserable. He didn't know how to feel when she fixed him with her beautiful, uniquely colored eyes, which were always so open and searching. She never had to be charming or ingratiating, all she had to do was be _herself_ and suddenly Draco would forget all the reasons he'd hated her for so long. It was exhausting work to maintain the facade that he was unaffected by her.

He wondered if she _knew_ what she was doing to him… but surely not. Granger didn't seem to have even the most remote awareness of her own appeal. It was so unlike Pansy, unlike any girl he'd ever known for that matter. Slytherin girls were as slick as oil, in tune to their own cunning by nature and fluent in their ability to manipulate. But _this_ woman was the exact opposite of them in a hundred different ways. He did not understand why she _cared_ so much when she shouldn't. She had absolutely no reason to give two fucks either which way about him. It did not benefit her in the slightest… but then again, Granger was anything but self-serving.

He did not want to think that Dumbledore had been right about her. But hadn't he been right about so many things?

"Harry's going to be watching Nott. On the map," Granger said.

"He's not worried about Pansy, too?" he asked.

" _You_ even said you weren't worried about Pansy," she pointed out.

"Actually, what I said was that I could handle her," he snapped. "I didn't _say_ I wasn't worried about what she's got planned. I can't just disregard her, and neither should you lot. She may be dumb, but she isn't _stupid._ "

"Harry… thinks that Voldemort may have given Nott something else to do. Something more important. And that Pansy's main job is to focus on you."

"I suppose he doesn't think _my_ safety is very important. Thinks whatever Nott is getting up to is the first priority, does he?" Draco snarled.

"That's not the case, Malfoy," she assured. "He's not - it's different now, isn't it? After your mum helping with the locket. And RAB, of course. You were there when he told Ron that we were keeping you in this thing."

"He also called me an arrogant twat at the time," he reminded her.

"Well, if you made more of an effort -"

"Right, an effort to be friendly with Potter. In your wildest Gryffindor dreams, Granger."

"Maybe if you asked him to help you with your Patronus -"

"He wouldn't," Draco said flatly.

"He would! I'm sure he would! I could ask him for you, if you want."

Draco snorted. "If I wanted Potter's help with something, I'd ask him myself. I wouldn't have a woman do it for me. If you don't want to help me, just _say_ so -"

"No! That's _not_ what I mean. I just mean that..." Granger paused, looking pained. "Harry's better than me at this. I've always had problems with the Patronus charm. Harry does it effortlessly."

Draco snickered. "Really? Harry Potter, better than the Great Know-It-All Hermione Granger? What happened? I thought you were supposed to be the brightest witch of your age?"

He was laughing wholeheartedly now. Granger cracked a smile and giggled. It was… nice. Draco wasn't sure that he'd ever heard her laugh. Not, at least, when _he_ was the one that had brought it out of her. Draco tried to ignore the fact that her smile was bright and very pretty.

"Actually." she grinned. "I only got an 'Exceeds Expectations' on my OWL. Harry got an 'Outstanding.'"

"I don't believe it," Draco teased in mock incredulity.

"It's true!" she insisted, her eyes shining. Her shoulders shook with laughter before she took a deep breath to steady herself. Their eyes met and the moment died, Draco's smile fading as Granger cleared her throat nervously. "Are you ready, then? To practice."

Draco nodded, unclasping his Hogwarts robes as Granger stepped forward to the couch where, he noticed, that she had dropped not one but _two_ bags onto the cushions.

"What's that?"

"What?" she replied, confusion knitting her eyebrows toward one another.

" _That,"_ said Draco, pointing. "That bag. The little one."

Granger's eyes followed the line of his finger to the tiny beaded purse lying next to her school satchel. "I don't know what you mean," she said evasively, turning away as she removed her robe. Draco covered the distance between them and inserted himself between the armchair and her body.

"It must be interesting if you're lying about it," he smirked.

Granger averted her eyes. "It's got an Undetectable Extension charm on it. I've been packing."

Draco's eyebrows shot high on his head. "Packing," he stated.

"Harry's getting anxious. I don't know how much longer I'll be able to keep him here. He'd already be gone if it wasn't for the fact that Ron and I pretty much outvoted him," she explained. "I've got him to agree that we'll leave after we find out what there could be of Ravenclaw's."

He gestured toward the couch. "And what's in the bag?"

Granger shrugged. "Books. Potions. Healing draughts. A tent. Food, and some extra clothes."

"Extra clothes for whom?"

"Me, Harry, Ron." She looked away. "And you."

"How did you know for certain that I was coming with you?"

"It's not as if you've just taken this on as an extra-curricular, is it?" she asked rhetorically. "I know you're doing this for a reason. For your parents."

"Right," Draco nodded slowly. "My parents."

There was a long silence. "We'd better get started, then. Not much time before dinner." Granger cleared her throat, Draco's close proximity making her fumble with her tie.

"Nervous, Granger?" Granger turned her eyes up toward him as he reached for her tie and unfolded it with deft fingers. Her lips parted and Draco could hear her shallow breaths as the material came loose, gliding smoothly across her Oxford as he slid it from around her neck. He pulled his Hogwarts sweater over his head. "Ready?"

Granger shook her head, looking panicked. "No."

Draco laughed as he rolled up the sleeves. "I meant 'are you ready to _practice,_ '" he said, smirking. "But don't think I've forgotten."

.

* * *

.

"Okay, try it again, but this time, try taking a step forward. You're casting it like it's a defensive spell."

"It _is_ a defensive spell, Granger."

"Not really. It's more offensive. Remember that you're creating this thing to attack as much as you're doing it to defend yourself. Try casting it like the Reductor curse."

"Alright… _Expecto Patronum!_ "

"Er… okay. Try it with your wand pointed upwards, slightly."

"Like this?"

"No, that's much too high. Like _this._ "

" _Expecto Patronum!_ "

"You're not focusing hard enough."

"Granger, I swear if you tell me to focus one more time, I'll -"

"You're letting the window distract you. Turn this way."

" _Right,_ because looking at you is going to be so much less _distracting._ "

"Just _try_ it, Malfoy."

"Fine. _Expecto Patronum!"_

"Draco! Look! It's trying to take shape! Oh… well, it _was_ trying to take shape."

"What was it?"

"I don't know. Something rather small, it looked like. Maybe the same size as mine, or smaller."

Snort. "I hardly think _my_ Patronus would be something as small as yours."

"You don't know that, Malfoy. You won't know until you produce it, and it's nothing to do with your own size. Harry's not very tall and _his_ is a Stag."

"What's Weasley's Patronus?"

"A terrier… stop _laughing,_ Malfoy."

"It figures - " Snicker. " - that Weasley's is a bloody _dog._ "

"Don't start making fun of Ron too soon, Malfoy. I bet yours is a ferret."

"My Patronus is not a fucking _ferret,_ Granger."

.

* * *

.

On Sunday, Draco came down from his bedroom to find that Granger had skipped breakfast and was sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace, a book open in her lap. He peered over her shoulder.

"What are you reading?" he asked, and she gave a violent start, almost flinging the book off of her as she did.

"Good God, Malfoy! Would you be so kind as not to sneak up on me?" she said crossly.

He snickered. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were so jumpy. I thought Gryffindors were meant to be the brave ones?"

"You can hardly expect me not to be startled when you come up behind me so early in the morning," she sniffed then turned to face forward.

"So, what are you reading?" he repeated, leaning over her. Her hair smelled like roses.

"It's a book I found in our library," she said, gesturing toward the bookshelf. "It's about the founders but… I've been through most of it and I haven't come across anything about Rowena Ravenclaw having any sort of artifacts."

"You do know it's breakfast."

Granger shrugged. "I'm not hungry."

"You need to eat, Granger."

"Let me just finish -"

"No. Come on, you need food," he said, plucking the book out of her hand. She made a grab for it, but Draco held it too far over her head for her to reach.

"Give it back, Malfoy," she demanded frustratedly.

"You can have it back when you've eaten," he said and crossed over to the bookshelf where he inserted it into the open space where it must have come from. When he turned around, Granger was smiling. He glared at her. "What?"

"Nothing," she laughed. "It's just that this is something that Harry and Ron do for me when I hole myself up in the library."

Draco sneered.

.

* * *

.

"Did you really just come down to breakfast with the Mudblood?" Blaise asked in disbelief as Draco sat down. Tracey and Daphne looked up from their conversation, falling silent as they looked on.

"We come from the same place, remember? It's not the first time we've left together."

Blaise arched one dark eyebrow. "And you were both late."

Draco glared at him as he poured himself a glass of milk. "Something you want to say, Zabini?"

Blaise shrugged. "Just making an observation."

The girls were still staring. Tracey was looking back and forth between Draco and Blaise very quickly, and Daphne had paused with a forkful of sausage halfway to her mouth.

"Yes?" Draco prompted angrily.

They both looked quickly away.

.

* * *

.

Draco had been inwardly embarrassed by Blaise's assertion, but in the end, he had wound up getting done with his meal at the same time as Granger. Fortunately for the both of them, most of his house had already finished their breakfast and made their way back to the common room by the time they exited the Great Hall together. They had been walking up the Grand Staircase when, after looking over his shoulder to find Charlene Walters following them, Draco grabbed Granger by the wrist and pulled her off the stairs at the fourth-floor landing.

The library was surprisingly empty for a Sunday, occupied by a smattering of industrious students who were trying to finish their weekend homework in relative silence. It was mostly Ravenclaws and Gryffindors, although there was one pair of fifth-year Hufflepuffs. There was only one Slytherin other than Draco, and that was Charlene Walters, who had chosen a table facing theirs and settled herself in to watch them.

"She's not even trying to be inconspicuous," Granger whispered, blocking her face with a large book.

Draco said nothing, too busy glowering at the first-year girl to respond.

A few hours later, Granger emerged from the Restricted Section and dropped a thick tome on the table in front of him, a heavy _thud_ echoing throughout their area as it landed.

"What's this?" he asked, opening the book and flipping noncommittally through the pages.

"I got it from the Restricted Section," she said. "There are a few pages about Patronus charms. I thought you might want to read it."

Draco nodded. "Thanks," he acknowledged grudgingly, turning to the Table of Contents.

It wasn't until lunch that Charlene finally left, presumably to go to the Great Hall. She had flipped her frizzy hair over her shoulder and flounced out of the library after shooting him a resentful sort of glare. Once she had gone, Draco nudged Granger's shoulder. "Come on," he urged, and she gathered the books she had found ( _five_ of them) while Draco packed up his scroll, quill, and inkpot.

They ran all the way back to the common room.

.

* * *

.

"This is getting to be ridiculous," Granger panted as they burst into their dormitory. "I don't blame you -" gasp. "- for petrifying her. She's an awful little blighter, isn't she?"

"Now you see," Draco breathed, not nearly as exhausted as she was but winded nonetheless. He collapsed into one of the armchairs as Granger fell long-ways onto the couch, her bushy curls cascading halfway to the floor when she did.

"Maybe it's better if we just leave," Granger said thoughtfully, staring up at the high-ceiling of the common room. "It's obviously safer for you if we're not at Hogwarts."

"Maybe," Draco agreed. "You know she's going to tell Pansy we were together, right? The other Slytherins are already asking questions."

Granger sat up, looking irate as she flicked her hair out of her eyes. "And I suppose you're worried about what they think? Embarrassed to be seen with a Mudblood, are you?"

" _No,_ Granger," he readily lied, although he was beginning to wonder whether he really cared about what his housemates thought anymore. "I'm just saying that if Pansy can't get to me, she's going to come after you."

"Pansy already knows, even if the other Slytherins don't," said Granger shortly. "She and anyone else who's a Death Eater must know what side you're on."

"You're probably right about that, but it doesn't mean we shouldn't be worried about what she might do to _you._ Or Nott, for that matter."

She stood from the couch and went to retrieve the book she had been reading earlier. "You don't have to pretend to be concerned about _me_ , Malfoy," she said airily, though Draco was not deceived by the lightness of her tone. "You don't have to pretend like it doesn't matter to you how people perceive you."

"And _you_ don't have to pretend that it doesn't bother you," he countered, eyes following her as she curled into the armchair again. "And for the record, I've had to tell you more than once not to put yourself in danger. You're the one who doesn't pay any mind."

"Hmph."

.

* * *

.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

"You're not _focusing hard enough!"_

"I don't know how much harder I can focus, Granger! Dear _Merlin_ , but you are annoying."

"You're the one who wanted my help, Malfoy. I've already told you to ask Harry. This isn't my strongest subject."

"And I've already told you that I don't want the famous _Wonderboy_ here trying to show me how to do a Patronus charm. I don't give a damn if he _is_ the Boy Who Lived."

"You need to let go of your pride. It's clearly holding you back -"

"Ha! A Gryffindor telling me to let go of my pride?"

"At least I know when to ask for _help,_ Malfoy!"

"I can do this without Potter."

" _Then show me!_ "

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

"That's much better, actually. Did you see the light? It was stronger than before."

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

Sigh. "I'm telling you, it's your focus. You need to concentrate on the memory."

.

* * *

.

"Fuck!" Draco shouted, days later. It was a Tuesday, the very last day of the month, and he and Granger had skipped dinner to practice. He was close, could _feel_ that he was close, somehow _knew_ that his Patronus wanted to take its form every time he cast it. But it had been twelve days and he still had not been able to manage a successful charm. He kicked viciously at the armchair, which nearly toppled over from his force.

Crookshanks (he had finally learned the blasted cat's name) advanced defensively on Draco from where he had been laying on the couch, his bottle-brush tail rigid as he hissed.

"Tell him to get lost, Granger, before I hex him," Draco demanded.

Granger rushed forward. "Crookshanks. Crookshanks, it's okay," she said soothingly, stroking the top of his head. "Everything's fine. Why don't you go hunt some mice?"

The beast, Draco had learned, was oddly intelligent and seemed to understand, for he directed at Draco one last angry yowl and bounded off toward the portrait hole. Granger watched him go and, once she was sure he'd left, turned back toward him.

"Listen, Draco," she said tentatively. There she went again, using his bloody name and making it much harder for him to focus on what he was trying to do: every time she said it made him want to carry her off to his room so he could make her scream it instead. "What memories are you using?"

Draco's hand tightened around his wand. "That's a very personal question, Granger."

"I know," she pressed. "But I think your memories may be the reason why you haven't been able to produce a Corporeal Patronus."

"It's not my memories," Draco assured her roughly.

"Are you sure?" she arched her eyebrow. "Because I really think that they're the problem."

"I thought you said it was my focus," said Draco, aggravated.

"At first, I thought it was," she admitted. "But now I'm not so sure. I mean, this has been going on for close to two weeks and I don't think I've ever seen you concentrate on anything this hard. It has to be your memories."

"I don't think so." He shook his head.

"Then what you're saying is that you're not a skilled enough wizard to cast it," Granger said bravely.

" _What?_ "

"If it isn't your focus, and it isn't your memories, then it can only come down to one more thing," she reasoned, raising her chin. "That you're not powerful enough to produce one."

Draco could almost feel his own energy darkening as he glared at her. "Listen, Mudblood -"

But she cut him off.

"Don't. Don't try to avoid this argument by insulting me with that word. You're not going to slither out of this that way," she said. "Make a _real_ case for yourself."

Draco crossed the room in a few long strides. "You're going to try to tell me that I'm a half-rate wizard? To do what? _Motivate_ me?"

Granger did not shrink away when he approached her. "I'm trying to make you see the real reason why you can't cast the charm!"

"And you think _this_ is the best way to do it?!"

"Just answer the question!" she fired back. "Tell me about the memories you're using."

"I've used every memory I've got!" he shouted. He turned away and stormed over to the window, not sure if he could be so close to her when he was this wound up. "I've tried every single one of them! Memories about my parents, about Quidditch, about Theo before - before he and I were on different sides. I've used every happy memory I can bloody well think of, Granger."

He looked back at her and was surprised to see that she looked very sad indeed.

"I can't use the memories of my parents anymore," she said softly. "The day you first asked me to show you, do you remember how I wasn't able to produce a Patronus at first? It was just mist, like yours? It was because I was remembering my parents one year when we were on vacation. It was a good memory, a _great_ one. But right when I said the incantation, I remembered that I may never see them again… that they may never remember that I'm their daughter... and I couldn't do it. Maybe your memories are tainted, too."

Draco let that statement sink in as he lowered himself to the couch. It wasn't outside of the realm of possibility, he supposed. Granger couldn't do it because she'd obliviated her parents, and she was one of the most talented witches he'd ever met.

"Tell me about your parents," he requested abruptly, realizing that for all the time he had spent with Hermione Granger recently, he really had no idea who she was.

Granger paused, considering. It was so long before she moved that Draco was sure she was going to refuse. But she didn't. At last, she seemed to make a decision, for she walked slowly toward the couch and sat next to him.

"My parents are… the most wonderful people," she began with a fond smile. "You already know that they're Muggles."

"What do they do for a living?" he asked.

Hermione giggled. "You wouldn't know what it means, but they're dentists. They... er, well they're kind of like the Muggle equivalent of Healers. Except that they specialize in people's teeth. Muggles don't have magic to fix their teeth, obviously, so people like my parents fix them using machines. Drills and - well, you wouldn't understand."

Draco raised his eyebrows and laughed, shaking his head. "Do they get paid a lot of money for doing that? For fixing people's teeth?"

She shrugged. "They do alright," she said.

"What else?"

Hermione gazed forward to the fireplace, her eyes looking very far away. She hesitated. "They're really very good parents. They've always been so supportive… they were very proud when Professor Dumbledore came to my house to tell me I was a witch."

"Professor Dumbledore came to your house _himself?"_ he asked in disbelief.

She nodded. "With Muggle-borns, someone always comes to explain what the letter means. You remember from Tom Riddle's memories, don't you? Dumbledore went to the orphanage to tell him he was a wizard. Anyway, my parents have always been so proud of me. They don't understand, of course - or, they _didn't_ … and they don't know about any of it now."

"You _Obliviated_ them."

She nodded sadly. "I had to," she admitted in a quiet voice. "You know what Voldemort does to Muggles. He kills them, tortures them for sport. I _Obliviated_ them and sent them away, to another country. Where Voldemort won't be able to find them."

"Where?" he asked curiously.

"America," she answered, but Draco could tell by the twitch of her eyebrows that she was lying.

"It's alright, Granger, if you don't want to tell me. I understand," and then, "you're a horrible liar, you know."

"I like to think that's a good thing," she responded, but she was smirking.

 _What a novel idea,_ Draco thought as he watched her. He didn't know a single person who would have thought that being unable to tell a proper lie was a _good_ thing. Except Granger, apparently. Granger and her merry band of idiots. How different they truly were, how different _she_ was from him, and from everyone he had ever known or loved.

"I grew up having to lie," he told her. "My father… well, you know why I had to lie to him all the time. He loves me but… but he never had a problem punishing me. And then Voldemort came back and everything went to shit. I didn't have to lie to my mother _as much._ She's more understanding, I guess. But I had to protect her from things and it was always better if I lied. My aunt Bella taught me Occlumency, before sixth-year. To help me do what I was supposed to do, to fulfill Voldemort's task. My whole family are liars."

"You don't think it's different now?" she suggested. "Now that your family's defected?"

"Granger, you're not understanding. You always want to see the best in people, but sometimes there's not as much good as you want to believe there is." He turned to face her. "You're parents are loving? They trust you? They support you? Believe in you? They'd do anything for you? My parents are _cold._ My father made horrible choices. You'd think if he'd really loved his son as much as he should, he wouldn't have gone to Voldemort when he came back. But he did, even though he had a wife and son to think of. My mother, yea, she'd probably do anything for me. But do you think I grew up with her telling me how much she adored me? That she told me how much she _believed_ in me? My childhood is _characterized_ by having outrageously high expectations to live up to, and _knowing_ that I _have_ to reach them, or else I just… I just won't have their support anymore. I'll just be the son that wasn't _good enough._ "

Granger's face was as melancholy as he'd ever seen it. Her eyes were bright and shining, her bottom lip pushed slightly outward as though she was about to cry. She still looked stunning.

"Stop it, Granger," he ordered.

"What? I didn't _say_ anything!" she said indignantly.

"Stop _pitying_ me!"

"I don't - that's what you think? That I pity you?" she asked.

"It's pretty _obvious_ Granger, with your stupid bleeding Gryffindor heart -"

"No," she interrupted, shaking her head slowly. "You think you're a bad person because of what you've come from. You think… you think that there's no redemption for you. But there is, don't you see? Don't you see how much you've already changed, just by being away from Voldemort's influence? From the Death Eater's influence? Can't you see how much better you are now?"

"Stop, Granger, you don't know me," he said firmly. "You're under the impression that you can understand me just because we've been living together. But you're wrong. You don't know what you're talking about."

"I think I do," she whispered. "You don't believe in yourself, Draco. But I believe in you."

His heart stopped.

He held her gaze for a long time before his eyes flicked down to her lips, wondering if this could possibly be true. Surely, this was a dream. This couldn't be happening.

 _Hermione Granger believed in him?_

Not hated him. Not despised him. Not loathed, envied or pitied him, but _believed_ in him. One of his oldest enemies, whom he had resented for years, whom he had teased and taunted and even attacked, _believed_ in him. The girl he had loved to antagonize, and who had detested him equally as much, no longer scorned him but _believed_ in him.

He had done absolutely nothing for her. She had no reason - not even one single, solitary reason - the think that he was anything less than a coward who had defected out of fear, and yet here she was, telling him that she _believed_ in him.

Draco caught her face in his hands and kissed her, not roughly or aggressively, or even salaciously. He kissed her slowly, sensually, his fingers sliding backward from her cheek to curl into her hair. Her lips parted and he licked at her tongue, tilting his head so he could have more of her. He felt greedy for her, greedy for something he didn't even very well deserve, for a woman who by all rights should hate him, but who _didn't._

He pulled away from her and buried his nose into the side of her neck, inhaling her intoxicating scent, taking her skin into his mouth and breathing softly into her ear. She gasped, and it was all the permission he needed. He pushed her backward, bracing his hand on the arm of the couch so he could hang above her, and then she was _saying_ something. But her voice was too far away, like she was at a distance rather than directly underneath him.

What was it? What was she saying? He was too lost to have heard it.

"Malfoy," she repeated. " _Malfoy! Listen_!"

He pulled away from her abruptly. Had he gone too far? "I'm sorry." he rushed out. "I didn't mean, if you're not ready -"

" _No._ Look at the _time._ We have rounds tonight."

He turned his head to look at the clock. She was right.

 _Of course, she was fucking right._

 _._

* * *

 ** _A/N: I love all my reviewers, but I have to mention one in particular, who recently found this story and reviewed every chapter. I'll probably start doing more mentions, as there are a lot of you who review every single time I update._**

 ** _So thanks to reeroy, for all your encouragement and love!_**

 ** _Some of you also submitted some really lengthy reviews, which I adore. I love that you guys are putting so much thought into my story!_**


	16. Pansy

The last evening of the month was the only time the pair of them were scheduled together on the rota, but Hermione had come quite close to disregarding their rounds entirely. If there were any students in the school who could skip their duties and get away with it, it would be the Head Boy and Girl… but in the end, she decided that snogging Draco Malfoy was simply not a good enough reason to skive off. She may have a tendency to bend the rules when it came to her countless misadventures, but Hermione still had obligations.

One of them was rounds.

But it wasn't without an aching regret that she had made that decision. The way he had been kissing her was… different. Distinctly different. There had been no desirous barrage of lust, and none of the possessiveness that had always made her feel as though she was being suffocated and revived at the same time. It hadn't been patient or gentle, but it had been stirring and slow and delightful. She had felt, for the first time, that he'd been kissing her for more than one reason, more than just carnal instinct, and somehow knew as much without having to be told. She could feel it in the desperation of his touch and the pliable slant of his lips, could feel that some invisible boundary had been crossed. That _she_ had somehow stepped over a line and had ventured into uncharted territory.

Hermione stole a furtive glance at the thin boy walking alongside her and wondered what would happen now.

When they turned in at midnight, would it be different? Will he have closed himself off in that token 'Malfoy' fashion, the way he did when someone dared to come within the carefully constructed fortress he had built for himself? Would he begrudge her the trespass and lock her out?

"Stop staring at me, Granger," he said irritably.

"I'm not _staring."_

"You _are_ staring. You ought to be paying more attention to your damn surroundings," he snapped.

"What's _your_ problem?"

Malfoy stopped in his tracks, tilting his head to the side as though listening for something.

"Nothing," he said after a moment. "I'm just on edge. I don't like being out here at night when one of them could be around here, ready to try something. Pansy has the rota, she must know we're both on duty."

 _True._

Hermione was agitated. "Are you always this uptight during your rounds?"

" _No,_ Granger," he said through his teeth, stopping in the middle of the corridor so he could face her fully. "On other nights, I'm with someone else. So I keep whoever it is with me because neither of them is stupid enough to attack me when I'm not alone. But if _you're_ here, they're hardly going to be scared to make a move for fear of _discovery._ "

"I… didn't think about that," she admitted. "You're right."

"Of course, I'm right," he said tightly, looking pointedly down to her hand. "Wand out, Granger."

Now that he mentioned it, she could see that he'd already been gripping his own wand and could not think why she hadn't done the same. It seemed negligent.

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly.

Once satisfied that Hermione had armed herself, Malfoy resumed his walk and she fell into step beside him, but it was hard to keep up when he was moving so fast.

"You know, for having gotten into as many tight situations as your lot have, you're not a very apt strategist," he noted.

Hermione inclined her head and sniffed. "You've never seen me in action. You're not even qualified to make that judgment."

They were on the seventh floor, close to the Gryffindor common room. She could not help but watch the Fat Lady as they drew closer, wondering whether the password was still _Hinky Punk_. The portrait was notorious for her whimsical changeability, much to the very forgetful Neville Longbottom's continuous dismay. She felt a pang of regret as she thought of Neville and the rest of her housemates, Harry and Ron included. She missed them.

Malfoy rolled his eyes contemptuously. "And if you're not more careful I'm sure I'll be seeing you in action much sooner than I'd ever wanted. You wouldn't even know there were Death Eaters in the castle, the way you act."

"Be _quiet!"_ she hissed furiously. "Someone could be listening."

She gestured to the Fat Lady's portrait and could see the realization as it dawned in Malfoy's pale eyes. "That's the Gryffindor common room, then?"

Hermione nodded as they passed the obese woman's snoozing likeness. "For all you want to talk about _my_ not being careful, _you_ sure aren't as cautious as you try to make it seem. Why not just do a _Sonorous_ so the whole castle can hear you?" she said hotly. "Save yourself the trouble."

"Are you trying to broadcast our location? Keep your voice down," he countered.

 _Three more hours of this._

Privately, she wondered whether she and Draco were really all that compatible. It seemed as though they did nothing but argue when they were together, especially if they were supposed to be doing a job. There was such obvious disparity between them that she had to ask herself whether allowing Malfoy into her life in any sort of romantic (or sexual) capacity was a wise decision.

But Ron was no different. Even if their bickering did have a more friendly nature, there was always something to fight about. The most insignificant things could spark an awful row that would end in a weeks-long stalemate with only Harry as the awkward go-between for their stubborn personalities.

It was also true that Ron did not challenge her or provoke her opinions the way Malfoy did. Ron did not force her to check her motives the way Malfoy did, and Ron was also not an intellectual match for her the way Malfoy was. Ron was brave and loving and affable, but was he really good for her? Ron signified stability and familiarity, but Hermione wasn't sure if she wanted to choose those traits over passion and… passion and what else? Not love. Was it danger? Was she attracted to Malfoy purely because he was a risk for her? It was unlikely that he was hiding a heart of gold beneath all that sneering and bigotry, but she couldn't help but feel that there _was_ something inside him that was worth seeing. Worth _saving._

There was also the possibility that she was being short-sighted: did it have to be a choice between Ron and Malfoy?

Perhaps it was neither of them.

And yet being close to Malfoy was becoming less and less of a chore. The past twelve days since her birthday had been spent mainly in his company, and though it had been fraught with tension, it was not the same kind of strained, forced companionship that it had been a month ago. He'd turned out to be much easier to be around than she'd expected, even with the electric atmosphere that engulfed her when she was near him. Watching him try again and again to conjure a Patronus had revealed to her what she felt must be a completely different side of him - a side that was determined and perhaps a bit vulnerable. It was no wonder that he didn't want to ask Harry for help, but what did it say about their changing relationship that he was willing to show Hermione what was, essentially, a weakness?

She felt a strong hand close over her shoulder.

" _Granger,"_ Malfoy was calling, and the sudden force made her remember where she was.

"What?" she said abruptly, brandishing her wand as her head whipped back and forth down both ends of the corridor. "What happened?"

"What _happened?_ What happened is, you haven't been paying a bit of fucking attention," he accused angrily, but Hermione thought she saw a nearly imperceptible twitch at the side of his mouth. "I'm not going to do your job for you. Look where we are."

She observed the tapestry on one side of the wall, a detailed weave of Barnabas the Barmy teaching trolls the ballet. Which meant…

She looked at the wall directly opposite, which was unassumingly and deceptively blank.

"The Room of Requirement," she stated.

"Suppose now's as good a time as ever," he suggested, turning to Hermione. Was he asking her permission?

She nodded in acquiescence and Malfoy moved forward so that he was standing directly in front the empty space of wall, then began to pace back and forth. She wondered what he was asking it for, but it turned out not to matter at all because the door did not appear.

He tried three more times.

"Somebody must be inside," said Hermione dejectedly. "Do you think it's Nott?"

"It depends on what he's trying to do," Malfoy shrugged, pacing in reverse. They were standing side by side now, watching the wall as though it was about to move at any moment. "But if I know him, he's going to be focused on whatever his task is. And I think Potter's right. I don't think Nott's mission has got anything to do with me."

"Do you want to wait?" she asked quietly. "To see if we can catch him when he comes out?"

But Malfoy shook his head. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"Do you really think it's a _good_ idea to just wait passively while Nott goes about his business?" she tried. "I think it would be better to be more assertive about it."

"It's dangerous."

" _All_ of it's dangerous!" she objected. "There's nothing _safe_ about any of this. It's not the first time our lives have been in danger and you're kidding yourself if you think it will be the last."

"Our lives are in danger _right now,_ Granger," he shot back. "I fucking know that. But if I can help it, it isn't going to be _you._ Come on, we're leaving."

Draco seized Hermione by the wrist, but she fought against him. "Malfoy, _stop!_ " she demanded, trying to wrench herself free of his grip. "You can't protect me all the time!"

Malfoy did not stop dragging her behind him. "Like _hell,_ I can't. Are you aware that you can _listen_ to what's going on out here from inside that room? If Nott is in there, he probably already knows that we're trying to get in. We haven't exactly been _quiet._ "

She finally stopped struggling and allowed him to lead her away. He didn't slow his pace until he had reached the fifth-floor landing, and Hermione suspected that he might have gone even further had there been a staircase to follow at the time. Once they had gone far enough down the East corridor, Hermione jerked her hand roughly away from his.

"You need to understand something," she said as Malfoy rounded on her, looking petulant and furious. "You need to understand that - that whatever you feel, however worried you are that I may be hurt, there's nothing you can _do_ , Malfoy, there's nothing you can _do or say_ to keep me from doing what I need to do to end this war!"

"Granger, your voice -"

But her anger was already boiling over. "You've said yourself that you think whatever Nott is up to isn't to do with you. And if it isn't, then there's only one other option, which is that he's doing something to help _Voldemort,_ and -"

"Granger -"

"- and if that's the case, then we have to _do_ something to stop him -"

" _Granger!"_ Malfoy shouted, taking her by the shoulders. "Listen! For once in your sodding life, just shut up and _listen."_

Her mouth snapped shut.

"I'm not trying to tell you not to do anything about it. If we had been _absolutely silent_ when we were in front of the Room of Requirement, if we hadn't made any noise at all, then we would have had an advantage because Nott wouldn't have expected us to be there," he said, his voice quieter now but still loud enough to echo down the empty corridor. "I'm _sure_ he heard us because when I was in that room _all last term._ I used to listen at the door to figure whether anyone was in the hallways before I came out. We are _not_ going to jump headfirst into peril. Not when I'm around."

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not _scared_ , Malfoy -"

"It isn't about being _scared,_ " he said emphatically. "It's about choosing not to be reckless! Maybe you Gryffindor lot figured that charging into battle without _thinking_ were bright ideas, but it's high time you had a Slytherin in your midst to _temper your carelessness._ I understand that everything is about courage with you, about doing what's right -"

"It's about ending a war!"

"It's about self-preservation, too!" Malfoy yelled. "Who's going to end the war if you and your twin buffoons get yourselves killed first?"

"I -"

"No one, Granger," he said calmly. "The answer you're looking for is 'no one.'"

Hermione wanted to argue, wanted so badly to make him see things her way, but she knew that everything he was saying was true. She'd always been the one to tame Harry when he was ready to do something insanely stupid and senseless. She had never thought there would come a time when she would need someone to do the same for her.

"Okay," she surrendered. "Okay, I get it. I see your point."

"Look." He straightened out, no longer with his eyes at her level but looking down on her, his hands resting gently on top of her shoulders. "You're right about one thing. I'm trying to protect you because -" pause. "- because _I care,_ alright? I care. And don't start getting all love-struck about it, Granger. But that isn't the only reason. I just…"

He looked toward the ceiling and backed away from her, running his fingers through his silvery hair before he fixed her with a desperate look.

"I just don't want any danger tonight. We don't know how many more evenings like this one that we have left. I just want it to be okay, at least for tonight."

"Okay," she repeated, nodding slowly. "Fine. No danger tonight."

.

* * *

.

They spent the rest of the evening patrolling in relative silence, the sounds of their footsteps bouncing back at them from the halls that always looked so cavernous and foreboding in the dead of night when there were no students traipsing about the castle to make it lively and bustling and magical. They had not even come across Peeves, or any other ghosts for that matter. They took corners slowly and with their wands held aloft, always expecting a surprise attack, always expecting Nott or Parkinson to ambush them, but never coming face-to-face with any sort of threat at all.

The dungeons had been the most terrifying part of the night, illuminated only by dimly lit torches that were punctuated at intervals throughout the chilled, underground labyrinth. Normally, even Hermione would have rushed through them, perhaps not really circling the _entire_ below-ground map but just dipping in for a quick look before returning to the part of the castle that wasn't so ominous and creepy. But with Malfoy, she wasn't as scared as she normally would have been - _not_ that she would have admitted that she was as fearful of the dungeons as she actually was. They were just so quiet and spooky, and surely even Gryffindors had the right to be afraid of them.

Hermione chanced a look at her watch as they climbed the Grand Staircase together. Thirty minutes to midnight.

"Half an hour left," she said into the silence. "Should we check the Astronomy tower?"

Malfoy grunted ambiguously. "Why?"

She shrugged, grinning. "Well, consider if you were a foolhardy student with no regard for the rules," she offered. "Where would you go after hours? Say, if you had a secret romance going on with a person from a different house?"

He stopped and gave her a long look, smiling."I thought you never dated anyone except -"

"I didn't. But if I had, it's where I'd've gone."

"You treacherous little fiend."

.

* * *

.

Hermione was short of breath by the time they finally reached the top of the Astronomy Tower, her way lit by the tip of her wand and by Malfoy's Lumos in front of her. The first thing she realized was that it was quite cold, the first chills of October already whistling through the embrasures that looped around the entire tower's circumference. The second thing she realized was that Malfoy was immediately distressed, his face pulled tight with anxiety and, she realized, a cruel sense of nostalgia.

He was turning on the spot, the light of his wand flooding the tower in different directions as he rotated.

"No one here," he said shortly, but Hermione could tell by his tone that he was dismissing more than just the possibility of rule-breakers. He was trying to dispel the ghosts of his memories, and Hermione was astounded that she could have been so forgetful, so insensitive.

"Draco…" she whispered, taking a tentative step toward him. "I'm sorry. We shouldn't have come here. I didn't think - I mean, I just forgot. I forgot what happened here."

"No," he said, shaking his head. "It's good that we came here. I wanted to. Needed to, I guess. I can't run away from this forever. I need to be able to come to terms with what I did, right?"

He looked at her with a question in his eyes, and Hermione's breath caught in her throat. Malfoy had never, ever looked to her for reassurance, or for answers. Not for answers to something like _this,_ something of this awful magnitude.

"It's part of it," she agreed. "It's part of what you would call healing. But, maybe if you tried to look at it in a different light, you'd see that it's not as bad as all that."

Malfoy snorted and gave her his back as he strode to one of the stone sills, leaning over it as he gazed out onto the grounds. "There you go again, trying to see the best in people. But maybe you'd forgotten what really happened that night. What I did, what I tried to do. I let them into the castle - people almost died. If the Order hadn't been here, which students would have been slaughtered, Granger? Which of them would have died because of me?"

"No, Malfoy," she said slowly. "I didn't forget that you let the Death Eaters into the castle." Hermione saw his grip tighten visibly. "But I think you're forgetting what else you did that night. I think you're forgetting that that was the night you made a very tough decision… probably the toughest of your life. The toughest and the bravest."

"It doesn't change what I did, what I've _done._ What I've seen them do. What I've seen _him_ do," he listed, still facing away from her. "I was a part of that. One good choice doesn't outweigh all the horrible ones."

"Would you have thought that if you'd still been a Death Eater? If you had really killed Dumbledore and fled the castle with the rest of them, would you even be pondering this right now?" she asked.

But he didn't respond, so she continued. "What I said earlier, in the common room, about redemption, about how much you've changed... It's obvious, isn't it? It's obvious how different you are now. The other Death Eaters, they kill without question. They murder and maim and… and rape, and torture innocent people without even giving it a second thought."

She was slowly moving closer to him, the way a person might approach a very dangerous and volatile beast that was ready to strike.

"You aren't like them," she went on. "You aren't like them at all. The choices you made, you did them for your parents. You were… misguided. You thought it was the _right_ choice, and maybe for that Draco Malfoy, the _old_ Draco Malfoy, it was the right choice. Or at least the obvious one. But it's different now, you _know_ it is."

Close enough now to touch him, she reached for his shoulder, but as soon as her fingers closed around his robes, he flinched away.

"Would you forgive them?" he asked suddenly. "If Bellatrix just decided to see the error of her ways and apologized, would you be able to forgive her? To just forget that she killed Sirius Black and so many others, and disregard all the despicable things she's done to people?"

Hermione considered the question for a long moment, unable to speak at first. She searched her soul for the answer but found that she could not give a definite one. Clearly, she should say yes. She _should_ say that redemption is available to anyone who truly seeks it, that forgiveness should be available to everyone, no matter what. But she couldn't.

"I don't know," she finally answered, and Malfoy nodded.

"Do you see, now? Do you see that there are things that no person can come back from?"

She allowed that to sink in, a coldness seeping through her skin as she realized what he might be implying. She wet her lips, finding that her mouth was too dry for her to properly speak. "Are you saying that… that you've done those things?" she asked in a very small voice, dreading the answer.

"No," he said simply, and Hermione was so relieved that she actually clutched at her chest. "But I would have if it had been necessary. If it was what needed to be done to protect my family."

She paused, asking herself what the right response was to such a loaded statement.

"I think…" she began hesitantly. "I think anyone would. If my parents were in danger, I'd kill for them. If there was no other option, I think I would do it. But there was another option for you, and you made the _right_ decision, and maybe… maybe you and I are not as different as you thought."

At last, Malfoy turned toward her, his expression haunted and confused. But as soon as he was facing her, Hermione rushed into him, wrapping her hands around his neck and pressing her lips to his.

She had never been the one to kiss _him_ before, and in one bizarre moment of self-consciousness, she thought he may push her away. But he didn't. His hands slid around her waist as his back collided with the sill behind him, his lips working hungrily at her own. Malfoy groaned into her mouth and then turned her so that the small of her back was weighed down into the tower's masonry by his body. He leaned over her, both of his hands weaving into her hair as his teeth came down gently on her bottom lip. He smelled divine, a heady combination of spice and cologne and masculinity, and she thought her knees may give out from the sheer gravity of it all.

And she never wanted it to end, but it did, because that's when she heard it.

A distant explosion, so quiet that she'd almost wondered if she had imagined it, and then voices, loud and aggressive but very far away. She pulled back from Malfoy, planting her hands on his chest. "Did you hear -"

He had.

Confusion and panic flashed across Malfoy's eyes as they darted quickly over the landscape behind her. Then he hurried to the opposite end of the Astronomy Tower, leaning so far over the ledge that his chest was no longer within its bounds.

"Granger," he said stiffly, and Hermione sprinted the short distance over to him, skidding along the stonework and crashing against the sill, desperate to know what Malfoy knew, desperate to _see_ that he had seen.

There, on the Quidditch Pitch, was a blazing circle of flames scorching the manicured lawns of the stadium, and within it, two indistinguishable figures, jets of green and red and blue light volleying between them as they dueled.

Hermione felt her heart plummet heavily into her stomach. " _No,"_ she whispered.

"Granger, look. The green lights. Those are Killing Curses," he said gravely.

And Malfoy had probably wondered why Hermione didn't respond immediately. Probably, he had turned to face her, searching for her answer. And then he had probably spun on his heel to find her, and he had probably panicked shortly after that.

But Hermione hadn't a clue what Malfoy had done because she hadn't seen. She was already gone.

.

* * *

.

Hermione raced down the long, winding stairs of the Astronomy Tower, able to glimpse split-second pictures of the Quidditch Pitch through the East-facing windows as she descended at break-neck speed. The fire was spreading, burning quickly through the grass in all directions and coming so close to the stands - she had to get there, had to see who it was. It must be at least one Death Eater - she could not think what else it could be -

She burst into the seventh-floor corridor and nearly fell as her shoes slid sideways across the stone floor. She was dimly aware of the thudding steps behind her, knowing they must belong to Malfoy. He was not trying to stop her, was not calling after her and demanding that she wait or to think before she acted, and Hermione was thankful for it: she wouldn't have stopped if he asked her to.

She ran down the Grand Staircase, thinking only that the castle must have sensed what was happening, that it must have _known_ that she needed to get to the Quidditch Pitch because the staircases were on all the right landings.

Hermione knew that she should tell somebody - a teacher, the Headmistress, even Peeves if he was around. She should sacrifice the few seconds it would take to send her Patronus to deliver the message that something was horribly wrong, that they needed back-up - but there wasn't _time_. For all she knew, someone was already dead.

Finally, she and Malfoy landed on the ground-floor and rounded the banister, rushing toward the back entrance that would take them to the trail. He was ahead of her, moving much faster than she was with his long strides. Her side was burning - she couldn't breathe, her chest could not draw in any air, but it didn't matter. She could not, _would_ not stop.

The cold wind that assaulted her face was a welcome relief as she and Malfoy sprinted across the grounds. She was trying to see, trying to figure who it was before she got there, trying to see who had set the Pitch on fire and was trading the Killing Curse back and forth, but they were too far away - not even the radiating light of the spreading flames was enough to reveal their identities.

They were close, _so_ close - they were _almost there._ Her wand was pointed toward the figures, ready to Stun and Disarm as soon as they were within her range… And then the fire abruptly disappeared.

Malfoy skidded to a halt and Hermione nearly knocked him over as she crashed into his back.

With the fire gone, the grounds were bathed entirely in black. Hermione's eyes had been accustomed to the inferno's blinding light and, with the blaze suddenly gone, she couldn't see a thing. But she knew by the suffocating darkness and the eerie silence that there was something wrong.

It was a _trap._ How could she have been so _stupid?_ How many times had she warned Harry not to be brash, not to just dive headfirst into something without checking first, without knowing what he was getting into, without asking for help? _What had she done?_

"Granger -" she heard Malfoy say in a strained voice. She felt him turn around and grip her shoulder so tightly it hurt, but even though she knew he was right there in front of her, she could not see him.

"Malfoy!" she gasped. "RUN!"

She tore back toward the castle but was soon aware that Malfoy's hand had left hers.

"Reducto!" she heard him shout, and Hermione turned, her wand pointed at eye-level toward what she knew must have been their assailant. But the curse missed its mark - whoever it was had jumped swiftly out of the way and was advancing on Malfoy fast.

"Stupefy!" she shrieked, and the as the wizard deflected it, the scarlet red light exploded in front of him, illuminating his ugly, round face for a short moment before it died.

It was - it was Crabbe, and he was not alone. Goyle came up behind him, and Malfoy cast some wordless spell that landed squarely on Crabbe's chest, forcing him backward. He nearly smashed into Goyle, but the other wizard sidestepped his tumbling body.

"Expelliarmus!" Goyle yelled, and Malfoy's wand immediately left his hand.

Hermione had reared back with an Impediment Jinx ready on her lips, but the sound came out as nothing more than a startled gasp when her ankle came out from under her. She slammed into the ground and was being pulled backward - away from the fight, away from Malfoy and toward the Forbidden Forest. She screamed, barely managing to hold onto her wand as she clawed at the grass, trying to grab hold of anything that would keep her still. But there was nothing to anchor her.

"Malfoy!" she wailed, but could only watch as Goyle pocketed Malfoy's wand and Crabbe leaped to his feet. Malfoy was yelling something, but Hermione could not hear it, too distracted as she watched Crabbe punch him hard on the nose. Malfoy clutched at his face and fell backward. "Malfoy! _Draco!"_

"Granger!" he was shouting, rolling to the side and struggling to his feet. He apparently had not seen that she was being dragged away by some invisible force until he hit the ground, but once his eyes found hers, he forgot Crabbe and Goyle and tried to rush toward her. But the other two wizards had locked their arms around him. As Draco flailed in their grip, not strong enough to overcome them, he gave a strangled cry. " _Hermione!"_

But she was already at the tree-line, looking on helplessly as Malfoy was overtaken by Crabbe and Goyle, screaming as she disappeared into the forest.

.

* * *

.

She didn't know how long she had been dragged across the rough forest floor, hanging onto roots and plants as she went but never able to stop herself being pulled backward. Her face had scraped painfully along beds of thistles, and thorns had lodged in her hands where she had made the mistake of blindly grabbing at unidentified vines. She could hear the light-footed steps of her attacker as she was towed deeper into the trees, farther and farther away from safety, farther away from the possibility of being heard.

Managing to turn herself halfway onto her back, Hermione took careful aim before casting a stunner, which rebounded off of a shimmering, blue shield. Hermione was astounded - how could this person cast both spells at once unless he or she was highly trained and well out of school? Panting and trying desperately to remain resourceful, she instead targeted a branch in the distance, which came crashing promptly down but missed the moving form ahead. Instead, Hermione was dragged over it, the jagged wood catching on her blouse and scratching deep into the thin skin of her back.

And she never needed to guess who she would see as she came to a sudden stop and the vise-like grip on her ankle vanished; she did not have to wonder who would be there, standing on the other side of the clearing with her cruel smile and merciless black eyes. Pansy Parkinson was grinning maliciously at her, wand held loosely at her sides as though Hermione was not a real threat to her at all.

Hermione did not waste any time getting to her feet before she tried to hit Pansy with a curse - what was the point in fighting fair? Pansy wouldn't do the same for her. She twisted to the side so she could aim, but before Hermione could so much as move her wand, the Slytherin girl had wordlessly disarmed her. Hermione's wand left her hand and flew gracefully into Pansy's, and she swore under her breath as she stood, her knees still slightly unsteady from the violent trip into the forest.

"Stupid. Little. Mudblood," Pansy said sweetly, every punctuation saccharine and fake. She tilted her head mockingly to the side and waved Hermione's own wand in one hand. "What happened to all the brains you're so famous for?"

Hermione pulled in a panicked breath, flipping her hair out of her eyes. "What are you doing, Parkinson?" she asked warily, her voice shaking.

Of course, she knew. It was obvious… but she couldn't compromise Voldemort's trust in Snape by revealing that she knew Pansy was a Death Eater. But why had she taken Hermione and not Draco? Wasn't _Draco_ her target?

Surely she could get out of this. Surely Hermione could outsmart her. Surely there was some _way…_ She was limited without a wand, but there must be something… If Malfoy could get out of Crabbe and Goyle's hands - and they were so abysmally stupid, she didn't doubt it - he would come for her.

Wouldn't he?

The other girl sneered, and the expression looked quite hideous on Pansy's normally attractive face. "I knew you wouldn't be able to resist, little Gryffindor girl. I bet you thought you were being brave, trying to be the hero, weren't you? _Idiot._ I knew you would come, _"_ she chuckled, then glowered menacingly at her. "Did you think no one would find out about you and Draco?"

Hermione's breath caught as she tried to maintain her composure, but then she remembered that there was no way that Pansy could possibly _know._ She was just antagonizing her.

"You don't know what you're talking about, Pansy -"

"Oh, _spare me,_ " Pansy hissed. "All the Slytherins can see it. You come down for meals together, you spend hours in the library together… and I thought he could sink no _lower._ "

"I don't know what other people have been telling you, Pansy, but it's not true," said Hermione, as calmly as she could manage. If she could just distract her for long enough, if she could just keep her talking…

"Shut up you _filthy Mudblood!_ "

Pansy whipped her wand upward and Hermione felt a blinding pain in her cheek as the slicing hex tore through her skin. Blood spilled from the wound and Hermione almost crumpled to her knees. But she was too proud to go down. Fighting to keep her balance, Hermione cupped her face, her hand drenched in the warm, red liquid as she glared hatefully at Pansy.

"That's what this is about!?" Hermione demanded fiercely. "You're angry because you think your ex-boyfriend is seeing a Muggle-born!? You're _wrong!_ "

"Oh, no. That's not the reason you're here," Pansy said softly, not even appearing the least bit affected that she'd cut Hermione's face open. She looked deranged, her eyes wild and obsessive as she smirked evilly. "You're here because I'm going to kill you."

Hermione staggered backward, keeping Pansy in her sights as she tried to calculate the risk. If she ran, how far would she make it when she had no wand and Pansy had two?

"Pansy, you don't have to do this," she said, trying to collect herself. But her voice wavered even as she said it.

"Oh, but I do," Pansy nodded. The girl's face broke into a wide, genuine smile, and Hermione cringed in disgust. _Jesus,_ thought Hermione, _She's depraved._ She felt as though she was looking straight into the eyes of a young Bellatrix Lestrange when she was still a beautiful Slytherin girl from a wealthy, pureblood family, before she'd allowed her mind to be completely addled by evil. It was quite heartbreaking to behold. "Imagine it. Pansy Parkinson, the Dark Lord's most loyal follower, honored above all others for killing Harry Potter's brilliant Mudblood friend!"

Pansy slipped Hermione's wand into the pocket of her robes and twirled her own in her hand, taking one slow step closer as she beamed maniacally. "I'm going to kill _you,_ and then when Crabbe and Goyle are done with Draco, I'm going to kill _him, too._ "

Hermione felt abhorrence stir wildly in her stomach. "Crabbe and Goyle are _idiots._ Malfoy won't be held back by them for long," she said scathingly.

 _Just keep her talking…_

Pansy giggled girlishly, and the high-pitched noise was outrageously out-of-place. It sounded like smooth silk passing over broken glass. "It won't matter if he does manage to get away from them, the filthy blood traitor," she crooned. "He'll come for you."

"He won't," Hermione shook her head furiously. But she somehow knew, could feel, that it was a lie.

She needed to do something, she realized. She needed to try to get out of this before Pansy got tired of talking, for if she raised her wand, Hermione was not sure that she would have a fighting chance.

Hermione gave a false gasp and focused on a tree that was above Pansy's shoulder.

"Draco!" Hermione whispered, and Pansy's dark eyes went wide. The other girl spun quickly around, brandishing her wand toward the spot that Hermione had been concentrating on.

Hermione ran as fast and as furiously as she could in the direction of the castle, but she barely made it twenty yards before Pansy's _Locomotor Mortis_ trapped her around her legs. Hermione pitched forward, barely managing to catch her fall with her own hands as she came down hard on the forest floor. _Fuck!_ She thought fearfully, grabbing hold of a nearby root and trying to pull herself away - maybe she could get behind the tree -

She looked frantically around for a way out, another option - any option, but it seemed that there were none. There had to be _something -_ Hermione Granger was _not_ going to die at the hands of Pansy fucking Parkinson, the detestable, awful, half-rate Death Eater.

"HAGRID!" Hermione shrieked desperately, praying with all of her soul that Hagrid was in the Forbidden Forest tonight, that he wouldn't be too far away. Maybe the centaurs would hear. "HAGRID!"

" _Ardentios!"_ Pansy hissed, and Hermione felt a searing burn slash across her throat. It felt as though white-hot pins were fighting to climb through her windpipe and she choked, bringing her hands to her neck as she suffocated.

This was _dark_ magic, the likes of which Hermione had never even _read_ about. It seemed incongruous that Pansy, this not-especially-talented witch would be able to cast such a clearly advanced spell. But mercifully, Pansy _Finite'd_ the curse and Hermione inhaled a deep, rasping breath. Pansy's expensive shoes came into her vision and Hermione reached for her ankle, hoping to pull her to the ground - but Pansy had stepped neatly back, out of Hermione's range.

"When are you going to _learn,_ Mudblood?" Pansy taunted. "That you're just _no match_ for a real witch?"

Hermione raised her head to meet Pansy's eyes, and when she spoke, blood sprayed out of her mouth and onto the dead leaves in front of her face. "Don't you think the Dark Lord would want me alive?" she tried, glaring at Pansy with as much ardor as she could summon when her vision was swimming, blurred with pain and panic and fear.

"Don't try to bargain with me for your life," Pansy said through gritted teeth. "You pathetic waste of magic! _Crucio!"_

Agony burst into every inch of her body, augmented and intense and ceaseless. Hermione had never felt something so miserable, so excruciating - her veins were on _fire,_ every nerve-ending in her body throbbing with torment, every inch of her skin ablaze with the curse's far-reaching power. There seemed to be no part of her that was spared as she jerked left and right, trying with all of her strength not to give Pansy the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

At last, Pansy pulled her wand away from Hermione and the relief was like a divine miracle, like breaking the surface of tumultuous, storming water after being _sure_ you were going to drown.

But Hermione grinned bravely up at Pansy, refusing to relent. "You think the Dark Lord will honor you," she said slyly, her voice shaking with her trembling body. "But he will scorn you for killing a valuable source of information when you had an opportunity to bring her to him _alive."_

Pansy seemed to falter. Her face twisted briefly, looking as though she wanted to respond but did not know how.

And that was when Hermione heard it.

In the distance - far away but coming closer -

" _Hermione! HERMIONE!"_

Not one voice, but _three._

" _Over here!_ " she screamed hysterically. "I'M HERE!"

.

* * *

 **A/N: I had time to update :)**

 **There's a direct quote from JK Rowling, which is the bit where Hermione mentions Draco's sneering and biggotry.**

 **Mention for this chapter is villafoo, thanks for being a loyal reader and reviewer! I love to read your input.**


	17. Something of Ravenclaw's

**Me, to boyfriend: No, I need to update my story.**

 **Boyfriend: I thought you did that on Sundays?**

 **Me: Yea, but I left them with a cliffhanger and that's rude.**

 **Boyfriend: -_-**

* * *

.

" _Hermione_!" Draco roared desperately, jerking his body left and right against Goyle's grip. He had to get to her - he _had to_ \- but she was already gone, and Goyle's arms were locked securely around Draco's chest. "HERMI-"

Crabbe's hand slammed painfully over Draco's mouth, reducing the shout to little more than a muffled noise. "Shut it, Malfoy!"

Draco's strength was no contest for the other two Slytherin's brutishness, but he struggled to his knees anyway and shoved Goyle backward a few paces as he got to his feet. Goyle's arms looped under Draco's shoulders and then back around his neck, meaty hands pressed painfully against the rear of Draco's head - the more Draco moved, the more agonizing pressure he exerted on himself.

"I'll fucking kill you!" Draco threatened pointlessly, and both idiots guffawed together.

Crabbe cut his heavy fist upward and the taste of iron sprang into Draco's mouth. The impact pushed his head back, contrary to the force with which Goyle was driving Draco's skull downward, and a spasm of pain shot down his spine. He gave an involuntary groan and Crabbe laughed heartily.

"Look at him, Greg!" Crabbe said cruelly. "Look at him trying to get to his filthy mudblood girlfriend!"

"I reckon Pansy was right about you," Goyle put in, his breath hot and stinking next to Draco's face. "How's Granger's dirty Muggle cunt?"

Crabbe was howling with laughter. "Must be good, if it's worth his inheritance!"

Draco was unexpectedly repulsed by himself. He used to make these jokes about Granger, used to mock her relationship with Weasley and Potter using crude obscenities and prejudice. But now hearing the very same insults made his blood boil. _They had no right -_

"Shut the fuck up!" Draco raged, unable to stop himself.

"You admit it, then! Hear that, Vince? He admits it!"

Draco realized immediately that he had been stupid. He would only be hurting Granger by letting them believe the worst about their relationship. "I'm not fucking her!" he yelled, which wasn't a lie but was, perhaps, not the complete truth either.

"Pansy said you'd come, if we pretended to duel," Crabbe said moronically. "Did you enjoy the show? Bet you thought they were Killing Curses - none of it was even real."

Draco laughed derisively. "Well, aren't you two such the skilled wizards! Did you expect me to be impressed just because you learned how to do _fireworks?_ " he taunted. "Just as stupid as you've always been, I see."

"Could be worse." Crabbe was snickering, but his face twisted lethally and he kicked Draco viciously in the abdomen "Could be a blood traitor like you. Like your whole family."

Draco's legs gave out and he fell heavily to his knees, but also found that the jab did not offend him the same way it used to. "Pansy put you up to this?" he asked, his head throbbing. He spat blood onto the grass and sneered. "I suppose you lot defer to _her_ now? Do you expect glory for doing her dirty work?"

His eyes flicked briefly to the castle - it wasn't so far away. It was possible that if he screamed, someone may hear him. But who would be awake at this time? Were any of the dormitories or teachers' quarters near enough for his voice to reach? He doubted that either Crabbe or Goyle would be brave enough to kill him on the school grounds, but even if they were able to summon the will to murder, there was still the possibility that Granger might live. If he could just get someone out here… Draco opened his mouth wide and screamed, "Help! HELP! HEEELP!"

"Shut him up!" Goyle demanded anxiously, and Crabbe raised his wand.

"Oh, I'll shut him up, alright," he said evilly. " _Avada -"_

"No!" Goyle shouted. "She said not to kill him! She said!"

"We don't answer to her!" Crabbe shook his head, his fat jowls wobbling and his wand still pointed at Draco's face. Draco felt a rush of fear for his life - was it possible that Crabbe was merciless enough to kill him? To _actually_ kill him? "The Dark Lord will thank us! He'll honor us, Greg!"

Draco was terrified. Panic rose quickly into his chest. Goyle was saying something to Crabbe, but Draco could not hear what it was, for he was hyperventilating as he watched the castle. Willing for it to start moving, to show signs of life. But there were none - no windows had been illuminated because of his screaming, no teachers were rushing out onto the lawns. No one was coming. Was he going to die here? _Right here_ , next to the Quidditch Pitch? _At Hogwarts_?

But, no. He couldn't. If he died, there would be no one to save her. There wouldn't be a single person who knew where she had gone.

Overtaken with a sudden ferocity, he kicked backward as hard as he could, ignoring the stabbing pain in his neck that resulted from moving against Goyle's hold. His foot connected with Goyle's knee, which gave way with a horrible crunching sound.

"AAAARGH!" Goyle moaned, promptly collapsing and dragging Draco down with him. "You fucking broke it! You broke it!"

Draco scrambled backward as Goyle reached for him, favoring his uninjured leg as the other wizard lunged forward. But Draco was too quick - he scooted frantically in reverse, clearing out of range just in time to dodge Goyle's pudgy hand.

"Get him! Get him, Vince!" Goyle bellowed, but Crabbe was looking vacantly between them, as though unsure of how to handle the situation that he was suddenly no longer in control of.

Draco needed to get his wand - or _any_ of their wands - but there was no way to attack either of them while he was unarmed. He had no choice but to run. He flipped over onto his front and nearly tripped over himself trying to get to his feet.

" _Avada Kedavra!_ " Crabbe screamed, and Draco rolled to the side, hoping against hope that Crabbe's aim had been spot on and that he wouldn't be jumping directly into the curse - and he'd been right: the green light crashed into the ground, immediately wilting the grass as it struck.

"HEEELP!" Draco screamed fearfully, praying that someone would hear. But he was moving away from the castle and toward the Forbidden Forest - and if no one had heard him before, they weren't likely to hear him now.

" _Incarcerous!_ " Goyle cried pathetically, his voice high and squeaky in his agony. But his aim was not true, and the cords landed uselessly to Draco's left.

"Avada -"

" _STUPEFY!"_ roared an unfamiliar fourth voice, and Draco's heart soared with triumph.

Unspeakably relieved, he turned to see - _no one_. There was no one there, but Crabbe had fainted dumbly to the ground.

Goyle was looking wildly around, utterly bewildered as tears flowed freely down his face. He cast a Stunner blindly in the direction which the voice had come from, clutching his broken knee as he did, but the spell sailed futilely through empty air.

" _Expelliarmus!"_ shouted some disembodied _fifth_ voice, and then Potter and Weasley appeared suddenly on the grass just in time for Goyle's wand to fly neatly into Weasley's hand.

" _Stupefy!"_ Potter rushed out, and Goyle wobbled for a moment before he fell sideways. Weasley had soon conjured thick ropes which wound their way around Goyle's body and then bent to collect Crabbe's wand from where it had rolled onto the lawn. Potter crammed a crumpled-looking piece of parchment into his pocket and then knelt in front of Draco, gripping his shoulders with such force that he thought he may bruise.

"Malfoy!" he shouted urgently, green eyes dancing between Draco's own. "Where's Hermione!? WHERE IS SHE?"

Malfoy shoved Potter to the side, crawled over to Goyle, and extracted his wand from the pocket of his robes.

"MALFOY!" Potter repeated angrily. "Oi! _I asked you a question!_ "

But Draco had already jumped to his feet and was running toward the Forbidden Forest. " _Hurry up,_ Potter!" he called over his shoulder as he disappeared into the line of trees.

.

* * *

.

He didn't know where he was going. He wasn't sure he was even going in a _straight line_ , as often as he had to dodge tree trunks and thick copses of dark, ominous-looking plant life. He could never remember a time that he wasn't terrified senseless of the Forbidden Forest, but Potter and Weasley's thudding footsteps behind him were reassuring. Now, he was fearful of only one thing: Granger might not be alive when they found her.

" _Hermione!"_ he cried as loudly as he could, and Potter and Weasley were screaming her name as well as they followed him deeper into the forest.

Despair gripped his heart. What if they never found her? What if she was dead? What if Pansy had taken her _away,_ to _him?_ What if she handed her over to _Voldemort?_ He had to find her, he had to - the things that Death Eaters did to women - _but he had to get to her._ "HERMIONE!" he howled, and at last, he heard her strangled response.

" _Over here!"_ came the distant cry. Her scratchy voice sounded as though… as though she had been cursed. "I'M HERE!"

He changed direction, his arms pumping madly as he leaped over a root. Only a little longer - and then he heard Pansy's panicked voice.

" _Finite!_ Come on, mudblood, we're going!" But Granger kept screaming, trying desperately to lead them to where she was. " _Shut up! Ardentios!"_

Granger's voice cut out abruptly, and Draco was filled with fury. It was an awful, _brutal_ dark spell. Granger could lose her voice if she tried to talk through it.

Draco burst through the trees, finally close enough to take aim. " _EXPELLIARMUS!"_ he roared, and Pansy's wand left her hand. "Granger, _do not say another word._ Do you understand?"

He took in Granger's appearance and could almost feel the blood leave his face as he blanched. Her face - her _beautiful_ face - had been sliced completely open along her cheek, and red was dribbling from her mouth, a side-effect of the curse that Draco then realized must have been used more than once. Weasley hurried forward and took Hermione by the shoulders as Pansy raised her hands up by her own head, smirking maliciously as she took a few sideways steps.

"Dra-co," she sing-songed. "I knew you'd come for your precious Mudblood."

Draco did not understand how she could be so confident when both he and Potter had their wands trained on her face. "I'll fucking kill you, you _bitch! Crucio!"_

Pansy shrieked and twitched, but did not fall as the curse ravaged her. She was too trained by it, having been cursed by older and more potent witches and wizards to have fallen by Draco's curse. Indeed, she'd suffered under the Cruciatus of the Dark Lord himself.

"Malfoy -" Potter protested, but Draco cut him off.

" _Shut up, Potter!_ " Draco growled. " _Finite._ Tell me what Theo's doing in the Room of Requirement, Pansy!"

Pansy giggled, still smiling maniacally. "I don't know what dear Theo is doing, Draco."

" _Legilimens!"_ Draco hissed, and he could feel the ghostly fingers of his magic as they probed at her memories. But there was no entry - Pansy had learned to block her mind, and Draco recognized the signature instantly.

"Good try, love," Pansy crooned.

"Bella taught you Occlumency," Draco stated.

"How can you tell?" Potter asked curiously.

Draco had been about to answer when Granger let out a hoarse scream. She was jabbing her finger wildly toward Pansy, unable to speak for the curse that was destroying her throat.

"SHUT HER UP, WEASLEY!" Draco commanded, and Weasley moved to cover her mouth.

But Granger wrenched herself free of the red-haired wizard and lunged at Pansy's middle, reaching for the Slytherin girl's pocket.

What happened next was so quick that neither Draco or Potter had time to react. Pansy whipped a different wand out of her pocket and grabbed Granger roughly by the hair, hauling her upward and pointing the weapon at her temple.

" _Everybody back! Get back!_ " Pansy shrilled, and Granger winced as her own wand dug into her forehead.

Draco reared back to strike at Pansy, but Potter reached forward and took hold of his wrist. "Malfoy, _no!_ " he objected. "You could hit Hermione!"

"Drop your wands!" Pansy ordered, and the three boys knew that they had no choice. " _Drop 'em!_ "

They did.

"The Dark Lord will be so proud when he sees what I've brought him," Pansy whispered and began pulling Hermione, who looked quite terrified, in the direction of Hogsmeade where she could Apparate the both of them.

But Draco could not let it happen. He knew what would happen to her, knew that they would use her to lure Potter to his death, knew what Voldemort would allow his Death Eaters to do to Potter's Muggle-born best friend in the meantime.

"I'll go," Draco said abruptly and was aware that Weasley and Potter had both turned to look at Draco incredulously. "I'll go with you. Just leave her."

"How _sweet,_ Draco. You would sacrifice your life so the _Mudblood_ can live?" Pansy said in a girlish voice. She gave Granger a rough shake by the hair, and Hermione's eyes closed against the pain. "You _lied!_ You said there was nothing between you!"

"Pansy," Draco begged, his voice sounding far away even to his own ears. "Pansy, please, just leave her."

Pansy beamed. It was beautiful and awful at the same time. "Nice of you to offer, Draco, but I'm afraid your life isn't worth half what hers is."

And Pansy pulled Granger backward, but the Gryffindor girl appeared to have made herself deadweight. Enraged, Pansy opened her mouth to curse her, but at that moment, a tall figure materialized out of the darkness behind her and pressed the tip of his wand to the back of Pansy's head.

"Drop your wand, Miss Parkinson," Professor Snape said smoothly, and Pansy immediately obeyed. "Now, let her go."

Pansy shoved Granger forward and all three boys rushed to catch her - but Draco was the quickest. She fell into his arms and he lifted her, even though his legs were still shaking with adrenaline and his abdomen was still aching where Crabbe had kicked him.

"What d'you think you're doing, Malfoy?" Weasley asked in a threatening tone, but Draco ignored him, too preoccupied with the exchange between Pansy and Snape to answer.

Pansy had turned around, her hands up by her head once again. " _You_ ," she whispered, and Snape paused, looking as though he was deciding exactly how to proceed.

A few long, drawn-out moments passed where Snape and Pansy looked into each other's eyes, and then Snape lowered his wand slowly. "Go," he said, his teeth bared in a hideous snarl.

Pansy ran.

.

* * *

.

The Hospital Wing was a flurry of motion. Professor McGonagall had been in and out several times with Professor Flitwick, and Professor Snape had not left even once. He was bent over Granger's limp form, muttering the extensive incantation that would counter the Throat Scorching Curse that Pansy had used. Potter and Weasley were standing off to the side, watching her anxiously as the she-Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Seamus Finnegan, Dean Thomas, and Luna Lovegood looked helplessly on. Madame Pomfrey was on Granger's other side, tutting angrily as she administered a healing salve to the gaping slice that marred Granger's cheek.

Draco was in his own hospital bed, but his minor injuries had not yet been tended to because they were not nearly as serious as Granger's. His nose had probably been broken but had stopped bleeding, and his lip had been busted by Crabbe's uppercut. Madame Pomfrey would likely give him some Pain Relieving Potion for his abdomen, but, other than those three things, Draco really did not need much medical attention at all.

He, too, was watching Granger's bed and was quite irritated that he couldn't see her at all beyond the gathering of friends that had come to ensure that she was okay. He wondered how the hell they all _knew_ she would be here… it was as though they'd been somehow notified, but Draco could not understand _how,_ for Potter and Weasley had not taken any detours on their way to the Hospital Wing.

It was only after Madame Pomfrey had healed Granger's cut that Potter broke away from the rest and approached his bed. Draco steeled himself for the inevitably uncomfortable conversation. Of course, Potter would not be able to just let things _be,_ he had to do what he did best and go nosing around in what was not his business.

"Yes, Potter?" Draco expelled a frustrated breath of air and tore his intense gaze away from Snape to look Potter in the eye.

"Easy, Malfoy," Potter assuaged. "I only came over to thank you."

"For what?" Draco snapped. "It's my fault she was even in the fucking situation, to begin with."

Potter gave a small pause and nodded his head to the side, as though he might be agreeing and disagreeing at the same time. "Maybe," he said. "But you didn't have run off to save her the way you did. Or offer to go with Parkinson in her place."

Draco grumbled something Potter wouldn't be able to hear and looked back over at Snape, who was still concentrating very hard on the counter-curse. "Technically, Snape saved her. Not me. And, anyway, we're friends, aren't we?"

"Are you?" prompted the other wizard, his eyebrows disappearing underneath his scruffy, black hairline. Then he lowered his voice so that the others would not be able to hear. " _Are_ you just friends, Malfoy?"

"Look, Potter -"

"Answer the question," Potter demanded flatly, his bright-green eyes sharp and shrewd as they stared unabashedly into Draco's own.

"Do you know what happens to Muggle-born women when Death Eaters get a hold of them?" Draco countered instead. There was something unsettling about Potter that made it very difficult to lie to him outright. "It's not something I would wish on _any_ girl."

Potter looked surprised. "Did you just use the term 'Muggle-born?'"

Draco felt the blood rush to his face. "I meant 'Mudblood.'"

"Right," Potter said, but his suspicious tone made it clear that he didn't believe it. "Where's she been the past two weeks? I've hardly seen her at all outside of lessons. She's been skipping meals sometimes, too."

Draco rolled his eyes and looked away, but Potter was persistent.

"Malfoy," he prompted simply. "You know. You know where she's been."

"She's been helping me with something, alright?" Draco whispered furiously.

Potter looked interested. "With what?"

"... If you breathe a word of this to anyone -"

"Well, I'll be telling Ron, obviously -"

"Sod off, then."

"Malfoy, if you don't tell me what you've been doing with Hermione all this time, I'll hex you where you lie."

"I can't conjure a Patronus, okay?" Draco admitted. "She's been trying to help me but… I haven't managed it."

Potter grinned. Draco wanted to smack him.

"Why didn't she tell me? I can help you with your Patronus, Malfoy. I taught -"

" _I know,_ Potter, she told me you helped damn near everyone in our sodding _year._ I don't want your fucking help, Boy Wonder."

But Potter just shrugged and laughed knowingly. "Fine. But when you decide you're ready, let me know -"

"Never in a million years," Draco said firmly.

"So…" Potter jerked his head toward Granger's bed. "You two aren't…"

"Do you really think she'd be interested in someone like me, Potter?" Draco answered evasively, and Potter narrowed his eyes.

"Parkinson said -"

"No," Draco lied, looking quickly away and gesturing to the others. Hopefully, Potter would be distracted enough that he wouldn't catch on. "What are they all doing here? How did they know?"

"Dumbledore's Army, aren't they?" Potter smirked and withdrew a Galleon from his front pocket. "Hermione put a Protean Charm on it. When I realized what was happening, I changed it so it would heat up. We'd already let Neville, Seamus, and Dean know before we left the dormitory. Luna's the only one who still kept the coin on her, though."

"Granger told me about your map," Draco said unceremoniously, and Potter looked astounded.

"Why would she -"

"Are you really telling me that after _everything_ you still don't think I'm trustworthy, Potter?"

Draco watched as a muscle moved in the set of Potter's jaw, but after a long silence, the other wizard acquiesced. "I was watching for Nott on the map when I realized I couldn't see you two. Then I saw you, Crabbe, and Goyle and I realized what must be happening. So I woke everyone else up, activated the coin, and told Neville to warn a teacher."

"It's time to leave Hogwarts," Draco stated.

"Yea, Malfoy," Potter nodded. "It is."

Madame Pomfrey bustled over to the other side of Draco's bed and shooed Potter away. "You can see her now, Mister Potter. But try not to ask her to speak very much. Vile curse, that one. _Vile._ "

Potter didn't hesitate for even a moment before he was gone, and Draco watched the other students converge on Granger as Madame Pomfrey set about tending to his own wounds. "Broken nose," she muttered frustratedly, as though immensely annoyed that students had been daring to get themselves hurt.

"But she's okay?" Draco asked, and Madame Pomfrey nodded.

"She will be. But that curse did a number on her throat. She shouldn't have tried to speak through it, though she can hardly be blamed. Rare, _dark_ magic that is."

She was right, Draco knew. He'd seen it done, seen its effects - all ministered by his dear, deranged aunt Bella.

A few potions later, Madame Pomfrey straightened out. "There you are, Mister Malfoy. You may go when you are ready."

He stood and looked over at Granger's bed. He could barely see her between the bodies that surrounded her but could tell she was smiling. He felt a rush of indignant jealousy when he saw that Weasley was the closest one to her, perched on the mattress by her feet with his hand resting on her ankle. Draco wondered if he should leave… he had every right to stay, to be with her, but also knew that the others would feel that Draco had no place amongst them. He was saved the burden of deciding, however, for McGonagall and Snape swept back into the hospital wing, looking determined and authoritative.

"Everybody out, except you four," McGonagall ordered.

"Actually, Professor," Granger rasped. "I was wondering if I could talk to Luna, alone."

Draco could tell that McGonagall was ready to refuse but, after she looked into Granger's pleading eyes, seemed to reconsider. "Very well. The rest of you, return to your dormitories immediately."

Finnegan, Thomas, and Longbottom all left at once, while Lovegood stayed at Granger's side, smiling placidly.

McGonagall and Snape ushered Draco, Weasley, and Potter to the other side of the Hospital Wing, where the older witch then looked directly at Draco. "Explain," she said tightly, and Draco did, allowing the other two to cut in when it was necessary to add details.

McGonagall paled at every word and, by the end of the story, looked weak enough to faint right there in the Hospital Wing. "Goodness," she breathed, clutching at her chest before she motioned to Potter and Weasley with a shaking flap of her hand. "Thank Merlin you two were there."

"Professor, is the school going to close?" Potter asked.

McGonagall shook her head. "I do not believe so, although it is hard to say. It shall be up to the Governors unless the Minister interferes, which is unlikely besides. It won't be the first time students were attacked, and since no one was killed…"

Weasley grimaced. "And Crabbe and Goyle?"

"They are secured in Professor Flitwick's office, waiting for the Ministry to arrive and arrest them. I expect they shall want you three to testify at their trial. Speaking of which, which of you has their wands?"

Weasley produced all three wands from his pocket and placed them in Professor Snape's outstretched hand.

"What about Pansy?" Draco inquired. "And Nott? He can't stay here, he's dangerous."

It was Snape who answered. "I had to let Parkinson go for obvious reasons." He did not need to elaborate for the three of them to know what he meant: Voldemort would no longer trust Snape if he had kept her, although it did beg a question about Snape that Draco was not willing to ask. "As for Nott, there is no way we can expose him without having Parkinson here to out him as a Death Eater."

"But what about Crabbe and Goyle?" Potter protested angrily. "You can give them Veritaserum, make them admit it -"

Snape snorted. "The Ministry forbids the use of Veritaserum against students."

Potter looked furious. "Even when students are attacked and nearly _killed_ by Death Eaters -"

"Enough!" Snape interjected. "It is out of our hands, Potter."

"But -"

"There is nothing we can do, Mister Potter," McGonagall agreed, looking distressed. "Until we can prove he is working for You-Know-Who, we cannot expel him. I suggest the four of you exercise extreme caution in the meantime. I am not sure that we shall be able to keep this out of the _Daily Prophet…_ and I expect many parents shall be pulling their children from school quite soon."

With that, McGonagall turned on her heel and made to leave. Snape sneered, his black eyes lingering on each of them in succession before he finally followed.

Draco, Potter, and Weasley all exchanged apprehensive glances with one another.

"What d'you reckon we do now?" Weasley asked.

"It's time to leave," Potter responded, quite simply.

And then a serene voice interrupted them. All three boys started violently, whipping around to see Luna Lovegood smiling in that trademark way of hers.

Lovegood's voice was calm and undisturbed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to frighten you."

"Er, it's okay, Luna," Potter said awkwardly. "What is it?"

"Hermione asked me to tell you lot that she's ready to talk to you now," Luna replied peacefully and then exited the hospital wing with her hands clasped behind her back.

The three of them approached Granger's hospital bed. She was sitting up, her bushy hair awry and the scar on her cheek not yet faded. Despite her still-disheveled appearance, her eyes were dancing with excitement.

" _Muffliato,_ " she whispered. "I think I know what the Ravenclaw Horcrux is."

"Hermione, that's great!" said Potter enthusiastically. "We can leave, then! We were just talking about it -"

But Granger shook her head. "No, Harry, we can't."

The bright smiles faded from Potter and Weasley's faces. "But, why -"

"Because I think it's here. I think it's at Hogwarts."

.

* * *

.

It was an agonizing two days before Granger returned to the common room. Madame Pomfrey had bluntly refused her request to leave, insisting that she would not be permitted to go until her voice had healed completely. Draco had wanted desperately to visit her in the Hospital Wing, but every time he showed up, Weasley had beaten him there. It was infuriating to see the red-haired idiot sitting by her bed, holding her hand while she slept when Draco _knew_ that Granger would have wanted him there in Weasley's place.

So he went to his lessons and, in the privacy of his common room, practiced the Patronus Charm without her. It was proving even more difficult, however, in his current state. Every happy memory he tried to summon was pushed roughly away with images from that night, when he'd thought he would die at the end of Vincent Crabbe's wand, when he had seen Granger covered in blood and unable to speak, when he'd watched as Pansy tried to drag her away to deliver her to Voldemort. He'd had nightmares about it, and Potter was evidently not doing any better.

After the three of them had left the Hospital Wing, Potter had slapped his palm to his forehead and almost collapsed in the corridor - and at the same time, Draco's Mark had burned with a searing pain and had not stopped for a full day afterward. Potter had said that Voldemort was angry, livid in fact, that Pansy had failed to kill Draco and had to leave Hogwarts. Potter also said that Voldemort had tortured Pansy… and all Draco could think was that the bitch deserved it.

And then there was the issue of the Lost Diadem, which Granger had learned about from Lovegood. The idea was the most discouraging notion Draco had ever heard - it hadn't been seen for _centuries._ How could Voldemort have gotten it if it was _lost_? But Granger was sure it was there, had been so adamant that Potter almost stormed out of the Hospital Wing when she refused to leave the school.

Draco thought it may have been the first time in history he had agreed with Harry Potter. It didn't seem like the wisest decision to stay when Theo was still in the castle - they were all at risk, and it was so much more real now that Pansy had actually done something drastic. But Granger had insisted.

She was in the common room when he came in from lessons on Friday.

"Draco," she said, setting her book on the coffee table and getting to her feet. She looked beautiful - the scar on her cheek had healed completely and her voice was no longer rasping and hoarse. It was such a relief to see her alive and well that Draco had dropped his school satchel and rushed over to her.

He took her into his arms and inhaled her scent - the aromatic smell of a woman who had freshly showered.

"I missed you," she confessed quietly, her arms wrapped around his neck. He pulled away from her so he could look her in the eyes.

"I wanted to come visit, Granger," he said honestly. "But that idiot was always there."

"Don't call him names, Malfoy," she admonished. "He and Harry saved your life."

Draco snorted. "It doesn't make either of them any less annoying," he said, then looked pointedly at the couch. "You should sit down."

"I'm fine," she objected. "Really."

"Sit down, Granger," he demanded. She rolled her eyes but lowered herself to the couch, and Draco sat down next to her.

"Harry told me. About your Mark," she said. "Was it the first time it burned since…"

Draco nodded. "Yes. Snape said that my father's has been burning constantly, though. I didn't understand why Voldemort was inflicting pain on my father and not on me… but I suppose Pansy must have told him."

"Told him that you were involved with a Muggle-born?"

Draco turned to look at her, taking in her searching eyes and matter-of-fact expression. "Right, Granger," he said frankly. "That I'm involved with a Muggle-born."

She smiled softly. "Is it back to 'Granger' now?" she joked. "You were calling me Hermione when I was being dragged into the Forbidden Forest."

"That was different," he said pompously, turning up his nose. "I was afraid for your life."

"Were you?"

Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Honestly, Granger, do you really have to ask me that question? You're meant to be the brightest witch of -"

But before he could finish the sentence, Granger crawled into his lap and kissed him brazenly on the mouth, planting both of her hands on either side of his face. Draco's hands went around her waist and then drifted down to her hips as she straddled him, cupping her arse and pulling her against his body. He parted her lips with his tongue and Granger's fingers slid through the hair at the nape of his neck, igniting a burning heat below his abdomen. He groaned into her mouth, instantly overtaken by her audacity.

All the feelings he'd tried so hard to push down came rushing out. All his undeniable attraction to her, the gradual fondness that he'd developed for her over the past month, the fierce protectiveness he'd felt when he thought Pansy was going to take her away from him, the bottomless fear that had threatened to consume him when he'd seen her drenched in her own blood. The jealousy that had bubbled in the pit of his stomach when Weasley held her hand in the hospital wing, the absurd thought that _no one_ should have the right to touch her but Draco, that _no one_ would be able to protect her or comfort her as well as _he_ could - because he was _sure_ that no one in the world cared for her the way he suddenly did, because he was positive that she should belong to him - this bossy, know-it-all swot, whom he could no longer insult because he could not imagine being without her.

Granger's teeth dragged along his bottom lip and Draco was sure that he could not take any more of this, that he could not go another moment without having her.

He pulled his lips away from her and leaned his forehead against hers. "Granger," he murmured.

"Wrong name," she breathed.

"Hermione," he corrected. "Are you -"

"Yes," she interjected, taking hold of his cheeks and pulling him back into her kiss.

"Are you absolutely sure?" he asked again, his words muffled against her lips.

"If you ask me if I'm sure one more time, Draco -"

He slid his hands underneath her thighs and lifted her up with him as he stood. Granger's slender legs wrapped instinctively around his waist and he circled around the couch, praying to Merlin that he didn't trip as he ascended the stairs.

At last, he reached the landing and braced her against his bedroom door, pulling her Muggle sweater up and over her head. Her bra was exactly as he had imagined it, simple and white, cupping her small, perfect breasts and creating a curve beneath her collarbone where it held them back against her chest. He brushed the arch with his fingers and Granger shuddered, looking shyly down.

"Don't, Granger. Don't be ashamed," he said huskily and placed one finger under her chin, tilting her face upward so he could see her eyes. His lips descended on hers and she moaned - the most erotic sound he thought he had ever heard. He groped for his wand and, when his hand finally closed around it, rapped twice with it against the handle. The door gave way and he rushed into the room, crossing the small space easily and laying her back against his bed.

He straightened out as Granger sat up on her elbows, looking both desirous and apprehensive as Draco shrugged out of his Hogwarts robes and came out of his sweater. He was working at the knot of his tie when Granger reached behind herself to remove her bra - but he wouldn't let her take that satisfaction away from him. He climbed over her and pinned both of her arms above her head.

"Let me do that, Granger," he said into her ear, and she shivered. He relinquished his hold over her wrists and sat back on one knee, dragging a hand over her breasts, along her flat abdomen and down to undo the button of her Muggle jeans, which he pulled over her thighs and discarded promptly. Draco took hold of her waist and hauled her body upright, torso crashing against his as he unclasped her bra, giving his hands the freedom to roam over her bare back and up into her voluminous curls as he kissed her.

He wanted more than to just have her. Silently, he thanked Merlin that he'd had enough sense not to take her that first night, knowing that he would never have experienced it like this, that he could not have enjoyed her as much as he was enjoying her now.

Draco stepped back off the bed and undressed, taking in her flawless appearance: her wildly curling hair that fanned out on his mattress, her darkened eyes and flushed cheeks, her swollen lips and creamy skin; her thin shoulders and round breasts, the curve of her waist and the subtle flair of her hips. Merlin, but she was perfect.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" he asked as he slid her knickers over her knees. He pushed her thighs apart and lowered himself into the open space, his forearms flat against the mattress as he hovered over her. He could hear her shallow breath, could see her fear as he brushed the rough pad of his thumb over her bottom lip.

"Draco, I - " she whispered hesitantly, but Draco caught her lips with his, kissing her roughly as he took in a handful of her hair.

"Don't worry, Granger," he said, dragging his mouth away from hers. "I'll be gentle. This time."

He pulled her head backward and took the smooth skin of her neck between his teeth, and her responding moan was nothing less than a reward. He licked along her jawline, beginning at her ear and moving slowly down to her chin, and with his other hand traced the curving line of her hip. He slid his fingers over the apex of her thighs and groaned - she was already wet.

He drew circles around her most sensitive spot and she shuddered as he pushed one finger into her slick folds, pumping slowly in and out. "D-Draco," she stammered, and his lips crashed down onto hers.

"Don't you ever stop talking?" he asked gruffly, pulling his finger out of her to stroke the length of her opening. She writhed beneath him and threw her head back, weaving her fingers into his hair. He could not believe this was happening. It felt like he had waited so long for this, although he knew it had only been a few weeks since he had found himself obsessing over her. This beautiful, _pure_ woman should want nothing to do with him, and yet here she was, in all of her perfection, handing herself over to him. Because she wanted him. Because she _believed_ in him.

He flicked his thumb over her clit and pushed two digits into her. She moaned, tightening around his fingers - good Gods, he didn't think he could wait any longer.

"Draco," she said, taking him by the face. " _Please._ "

He pulled his fingers away from her and positioned himself at her opening. There was no way to avoid hurting her, he knew, but he was as gentle as he could be, his eyes never leaving hers for even a moment as he sank into her.

" _Oh!_ " she gasped, her nails digging hard into his shoulders. He took hold of her chin and kissed her quivering lips, allowing her to adjust to his size before he fell into rhythm.

" _Fuck,_ Hermione," he groaned, pulling himself almost all the way out before he drove slowly back in. He was sure there was nothing in the world more satisfying - he could hardly _believe_ she felt this good. He wanted to enjoy her, but the pace was torture and he was aware that he would not last long.

When she stopped her gasping and began moaning, Draco knew he'd taken her past the pain. He increased his rhythm, moving quickly into her at different angles, searching for the spot that would undo her completely.

" _Ah_ ," she exhaled sharply, and Draco, knowing that he had found it, pushed himself up that he was on his knees. He bent her leg upward to allow himself better access and then grabbed her hips with both hands, thrusting relentlessly into her.

"Draco _,_ " she moaned, and then her shoulders lifted up off the mattress and she clutched at his arms. Draco felt her shuddering ecstasy as she came apart beneath him, and he knew then that he wouldn't last a moment longer. " _Draco._ "

When she fell back against his duvet, her eyelids fluttering closed as she whimpered, Draco sought his own release, his cock pulsing as spilled himself into her. He collapsed onto her chest and brushed her wet curls away from her face so he could kiss her hungrily - blissfully. "God, Hermione," he gasped and then rolled off of her, taking in deep lungfuls of air.

"Draco," she said softly. Turning on his side, he took her cheek in his hand.

"Yes?" he asked, and her eyes were wide and pleading.

"Can I stay?"

Draco snorted. "Did you really think I was going to let you leave?" He pulled the duvet from underneath her and leaned back against the headboard, hauling her toward him so her back was against his chest. His draped his arms around her shoulders and Hermione gave a contented sigh.

"I suppose not," she murmured.

.

* * *

 **A/n: Oh, look they finally did it. We'll examine the reasons why Snape let Pansy go more closely in future chapters - and we haven't seen the last of her.**

 **:)**

 **Thanks to frekles for being a loyal reviewer. You guys are really awesome, so many of you review regularly. And I can't believe how astute some of you are, being that yall didn't read the story the first time around and are still making these really close and accurate observations. I love yall.**


	18. Narcissa's Fears

**If yall didn't know, I'm from Houston. The entire city has this PTSD and anxiety when it comes to potential hurricanes and tropical storms after Harvey hit us last year. Forecast said be ready for storms and flooding, but it's quite sunny, so I'm confused. This is a quick update and I will actually _try_ to have another chapter posted tonight if I can get my house clean early enough. Father's day, and all that. If not tonight, there will be another tomorrow evening for certain since I don't work doubles on Monday.**

 **Enter Narcissa :)**

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* * *

.

Narcissa Malfoy was sitting at the short, rickety kitchen table, sneering distastefully at how ragged it had become since she had visited number 12 Grimmauld Place as a young girl. She had become rather accustomed to spending time in the common areas of the house, for being locked away in the bedroom she shared with her husband had become increasingly stuffy and, given Lucius' current state, very uncomfortable in the recent months since their arrival.

Narcissa loved Lucius Malfoy dearly and the couple had managed to retain all the passion and wonder of their youth. She still longed for his touch and cherished his affectionate words, was still unfailingly loyal, and would still live and die and kill for her husband. But she had come to learn that the people whom you loved the most were also the ones against whom you were able to harbor the deepest resentments, and it was, therefore, no surprise that she found herself feeling more and more bitter toward the love of her life with every passing day. Narcissa was not sure whether to be more furious with Lucius for returning to the Dark Lord's side or at _herself_ for permitting it to happen.

During the First Wizarding War, when Lord Voldemort had been at the very height of his power, the world had been a terrifying place to live in... even for pureblood witches like herself, who were married to the Dark Lord's most highly respected followers. There were many who revelled in the power and fear, but Narcissa had not been among them: she would rather have a world that was crawling with Muggles and where mudbloods were given the right to learn magic than one where people - of any sort - were slaughtered wholesale.

And when little Harry Potter had brought about the Dark Lord's unexpected demise, Narcissa had felt as though she had been given permission to _breathe_ again. She had been _grateful_ knowing that her own son would be able to grow up without the threat of being murdered for something as simple as insubordination, that he would never have to suffer under the hand of a maniac, that he could lead his life away from the constant doom and destruction that had pervaded under Lord Voldemort's rule. That he could just live and be happy and safe and cherished, as was his _right._

As much as she loved her husband, she could never love him as much as she loved her son and Narcissa was not sure she could ever forgive Lucius for the horrible, selfish decisions he had made.

And it was with those sentiments at the forefront of her mind that she tended to her husband during his agonizing wakeful hours and the nightmares that accosted him as he slept. Always conflicted, always thinking of Draco and whether or not her son would be safe without Albus Dumbledore to protect him. Always wondering how different it would have been if she had sought the help of the Order as soon as Lord Voldemort had returned, instead of allowing her husband to rush to his side like a _dog._

Now here she was, sitting in the dilapidated kitchen of what was no longer the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black, while her husband lie shaking in his bed and her son was off chasing after Harry Potter, doing _Merlin knows what, when he ought to be fleeing the country, of all the senseless -_

Deep breath.

She pulled in a heavy lungful of dodgy basement air and was keenly aware that Alastor Moody's swivelling eyeball had come to rest on the side of her head, carefully surveying her in case she was ready to _Avada_ the entire kitchen and run for it.

"Only _breathing,_ Alastor," Narissa snapped, and the Auror gave a short grunt before he (reluctantly, she noticed) turned his attention back to his hand of cards.

It was always like this, with the rest of the Order members who either lived at or frequented this house jumping from grudging acceptance to acute suspicion in a matter of moments - she only had to _breathe_ the wrong way and it could earn her a rancorous look. But she supposed she couldn't _strictly_ blame them. If they only knew what lengths she would go to…

Her eyes flicked up to the clock that was mounted above the sink, which indicated each member of the Weasley family and their current whereabouts. Every single hand was pointed toward 'Mortal Peril,' and the notion made Narcissa sick to the stomach.

"Molly," she said, swallowing down the nervous fit that she felt was very imminent. "Where did you get your clock?"

The Weasley matron turned from the dishes she had been tending to and smiled kindly. "It was actually a Muggle clock that Arthur brought in from work years ago," she responded politely. "I thought it was so pretty, so I fixed it up and enchanted it. I've had it with me ever since."

 _A Muggle clock._ Narcissa said nothing and continued to stare at the slightly overlapping hands that read "Ginevra" and "Ronald," knowing that if Molly's children were in mortal peril at Hogwarts, then her own son was as well.

She could see from the corner of her eye that Molly had stopped her washing and had given Narcissa a long look, which Narcissa refused to acknowledge for fear that the other witch would see through her carefully constructed front and feel the need to comfort her. Narcissa did not need to be comforted, did not wish to have the sympathy of any person in this house, and for _goodness sake_ _was not going to dissolve into worried tears in this God-forsaken kitchen -_

Deep breath.

Quite apart from the fact that Narcissa did not need or want to be soothed, there were certain things mothers just understood about one another without having to be told. After all, there was a reason why Molly Weasley was doing the dishes by hand and not by magic - it was a nervous habit the red-haired witch succumbed to when she was under a particularly frightful bout of anxiety. This, Narcissa knew from having spent so many evenings in this kitchen, trying to escape the hysteria she was inevitably overcome with while she watched her husband tremble in his sleep.

And though she was loathed to admit it, Narcissa sometimes enjoyed the company of the Order.

"Was Lucius able to stomach his lunch?" Molly inquired, intent upon fretting over something.

Narcissa nodded despite herself. "He said it was quite good, actually. Although I am sure he would think that any meal is good after going without food for days."

Molly's face pulled tight with annoyance and Narcissa fought the urge to cringe at her own social ineptitude. She should apologize, should explain that she hadn't meant to insult Molly's (wonderful) cooking, but of course, she would not deign to do so.

No wonder they all hated her.

"Fold," said Remus Lupin, smirking ever-so-slightly as he lay down his cards.

"Tonks?" Moody prompted.

"All in!" she said enthusiastically, pushing her pile of Chocolate Frogs and Bertie Botts' into the middle of the table.

"If you say so," replied Moody in a rare mode of amiability.

They each turned over their hands and Tonks wailed with disappointment, taking in a handful of her vibrantly pink hair and throwing her head back. "Royal Flush! _Mad-Eye,_ you old codger!"

Lupin was chuckling as he revealed his cards - Ace's High. _Well,_ Narcissa thought, _at least he knows when to bluff and when to get out._

"Not fair, Mad-Eye," Tonks moaned. "You can see all the bloody cards."

Lupin reached forward and patted her hand consolingly. "It'll be alright. It's just for sweets, after all."

"Says you!" Tonks said vehemently. "Says the one who isn't pregnant!"

 _With a werewolf's child_ , Narcissa added privately.

"Shouldn't've bet the pot, then, should you?" Moody laughed.

Narcissa almost cracked a smile but, thankfully, at that moment, there was a faint _pop_ and then the sound of the front door opening. A moment later, Severus Snape strode purposefully into the kitchen, descending the short set of stairs before he crossed over to the wooden table and set on its surface a heavy, stoppered glass full of purple liquid.

"The potion, Narcissa," Snape said tersely.

"Thank you, Severus," Narcissa acknowledged. She took the bottle and stared longingly into its depths, wishing that it was more powerful, wishing that there was something _better._ Her eyes flew to Severus'. "Is there nothing else that will help him?"

Severus gave a small shake of his head. "This is as good as it gets. There is not a spell or potion in the world that will eliminate the pain of the Dark Mark completely. How is Lucius faring?"

Narcissa took in a steadying breath, feeling ashamed even as she did. She could not remember a time ever in her life when she had been as discomposed as she was as of late. "Not well. He is in… considerable pain all day and his sleep is shallow. He wakes up screaming several times during the night. The only thing he looks forward to all day is Molly's cooking."

She tried not to look at Molly but hoped that her compliment, if not an outright apology, would make up for her accidental transgression moments before. It wouldn't do for Narcissa Malfoy to appear anything less than gracious, even if she was in a house full of people who hated her as much as she detested them in return.

"You shall be happy to learn that Draco has not experienced any pain that I am aware of," Severus said after a small pause, as though grasping for something to say that would make her feel better. Narcissa instantly felt her shoulders relax as she expelled a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.

"What's going on at Hogwarts, Snape?" Lupin interrupted, and Narcissa turned to see that the rest of them had forgotten their card came and were leaning forward eagerly.

"There has been an… incident," Severus admitted, folding his hands in front of him.

Narcissa's heart began to rush.

"Well don't be cryptic _,_ Snape," Moody growled, watching Severus very intently as he bit the head off of a Chocolate Frog.

"Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger were lured into an attack during their rounds."

" _What -"_ Narcissa gasped, clutching at her chest.

"They are _fine,_ Narcissa -"

"Finish the story, Severus, please," Lupin requested.

"Close to the end of their rounds, when they were patrolling the Astronomy Tower, they noticed that there were two wizards dueling on the Quidditch Pitch. And, _naturally,_ Hermione Granger was entirely unable to stop her recklessness long enough to warn another person that there was danger in the school. They ran out onto the grounds and Draco was attacked by Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle, while Pansy Parkinson took Granger into the Forbidden Forest - evidently, to kidnap her."

Every person in the kitchen was listening with their mouths agape, except for Narcissa, who was sitting stock still and clutching her hands together with such force that she feared her nails may break through her own skin.

"Fortunately for them, Potter and Weasley came to their rescue and had the foresight to send a student to notify the staff. It is to my understanding that they first freed Draco and then went to find Granger. By the time I arrived in the Forbidden Forest, the three of them had caught up to the girls but were forced to surrender their wands, as Parkinson had her own wand to Granger's head. I was, however, able to come up behind Parkinson and stop her before she was able to leave with the girl."

"Where are Parkinson, Crabbe, and Goyle now?" Lupin asked tightly.

"Crabbe and Goyle were apprehended and are awaiting trial -"

"But it wasn't in the paper!" Tonks exclaimed.

"Scrimgeour thought it would be best to hush it up," Snape explained.

"Parents have the right to _know,_ Severus!" Molly said angrily.

Severus, who seemed to be on the verge of a massive eye-roll, turned slowly to Molly. "Minerva shall be sending owls to all the parents, _obviously._ "

But Mad-Eye Moody had read between the lines and was not the least bit concerned about letters to parents. "You mean to tell me you let Parkinson _go?"_ he shouted.

"There was hardly another option, Alastor," Molly chimed in, clearly trying to maintain her composure even through her shaking hands.

"Rubbish!" Moody fumed. "You let her go back to the Death Eaters after what she did? She should be on her way to Azkaban!"

"Perhaps," Snape countered smoothly. "You would have preferred I detained her and forfeited my place in the Dark Lord's inner circle?"

"Snape, are you…" Tonks asked curiously, ignoring Mad-Eye's outburst. "Are you saying that Draco Malfoy went with Harry and Ron to rescue Hermione?"

Severus nodded. "That is the case."

"He has to leave that school!" Narcissa interjected furiously. "He needs to be _safe,_ he can't just run off after everybody trying to _rescue_ them, as careless as they all are. Severus, you must tell him. You must -"

"Narcissa, I have told the boy several times. He refuses to part from the others," Snape said calmly. "He is of age, there is nothing you can do."

"He _refuses?"_ asked Lupin incredulously. "Draco Malfoy refuses to leave them?"

Moody's eyebrows had shot high on his scarred head and all eyes were suddenly fixed on Narcissa, who was trying her level best not faint.

"I suppose you think the rest of our children are fit to risk their lives, but your son isn't, Narcissa?" Molly asked coolly.

"Molly…" Tonks said in an admonishing tone.

But Narcissa's anger was rising steadily. "Are trying to tell me that you would not pull your children out of school if you had the choice, Molly? That you would not rather them be safe at home than fighting in a war they are _much too young_ to be a part of?"

Molly's mouth opened wide but Tonks cut in swiftly.

"Narcissa, there are worse things in the world than having a son who's willing to fight against You-Know-Who," the pink-haired witch said firmly, and Narcissa could think of no response.

Frankly, there was nothing to say to it at all, because of course, Tonks was right, in the way people often were when they were talking about things to do with moral conscience. But the idea was quite as foreign to her as the thought that she would be sitting in a grimy kitchen full of members of the Order of the Phoenix, discussing plans to _destroy_ Lord Voldemort rather than plans to assist him. What Narcissa did not understand was how her son had become so… brave, if that's what one could call it, when he clearly had not had a single role model in his life who could be counted as courageous. And he had not inherited his desire to save _mudbloods_ from either of his parents.

"Actually, Narcissa, I think you ought to be proud of Draco," Lupin said, and the room was very quiet as the statement hung in the dank basement air. They were waiting to gauge her response, to see whether she would be happy about this strange development in Draco's choices or resentful that he had gone so contrary to the beliefs she had raised him to hold. But Narcissa could not feel pride or resentment. All she could feel was fear.

She wondered if she should take her leave, venture up to her bedroom and be done with this awful conversation… but Lucius was asleep, blessedly able to rest through his constant pain, and Narcissa did not want to risk waking him.

"Yes, well," Narcissa said nervously as she fidgeted with the Pain Relieving Potion. "I suppose things are very different now, aren't they?"

Moody grumbled something inaudible, and Lupin and his wife were exchanging significant glances with each other in the manner that married couples used when they were communicating privately amongst themselves.

"Severus, would you like to stay for dinner?" Molly asked politely, indicating to the counter, where vegetables were being magically prepared by a knife that was chopping of its own accord.

Snape sneered and Molly, looking affronted, placed both hands on the wide curve of her hips. "I cannot, I'm afraid. Minerva is expecting me back at the castle."

"Right," Moody grumbled. "The castle. Are you quite sure it's not _You-Know-Who_ who's waiting for you?"

"Not," Snape enunciated silkily. "This evening."

And with that he left, his black robes billowing behind him as he exited the kitchen.

"Oh, dear," Molly muttered nervously to herself as she turned back to the counter. "Dear, dear…"

The four who were sitting around the table were absolutely silent, each pondering their own thoughts. Narcissa turned the stoppered bottle a few times, observing the swirling violet contents and worrying. Always worrying, always wondering.

"Blood traitors, half-breeds, infesting my Mistress' house," snarled Kreacher, who had emerged from his cupboard and was wringing his filthy hands as he stepped into the kitchen.

Narcissa's eyes fell, not for the first time, to the locket that Kreacher now wore around his thin, disproportionate neck. The locket that looked _exactly_ the same as the one she had purchased from Dolores Umbridge on Albus Dumbledore's request, but which she knew it could not be the same. Narcissa knew that it _must_ be a duplicate, for she was sure that Dumbledore would not have wanted so badly to obtain something of that value just so he could pass it to a steadily emaciating house-elf. She narrowed her gaze, watching the gleaming locket where it hung over-large against Kreacher's chest.

She had not asked questions because she knew that she would not receive any answers. But she had many, many questions indeed.

"Get out of here, Kreacher," Tonks snapped.

"Kreacher does not answer to the half-blood abomination!" he croaked. Tonks ignored him, but Kreacher dragged his feet out of the kitchen anyway, having apparently had things to mutter about elsewhere.

"Narcissa," Tonks said slowly. Politely. "Would you like to play?"

Narcissa was taken aback by the request. She gave her niece, the one whom she had disowned along with the rest of the Black family for daring to be of mixed heritage, an appraising look. Then she smoothed out the wrinkles of her own immaculate, tailored robes and cleared her throat.

"I…" Narcissa raised her chin imperiously, trying to maintain some level of dignity. "I have nothing to bet."

She heard a sudden _thump_ and Alastor yelped in surprise, jumping a few inches out of his seat. Judging by Lupin's stifled laugh and Tonks' glaring look, Narcissa realized that her niece had just kicked Mad-Eye Moody under the table. The older Auror gave an aggravated sort of grunt and, with a single nod, split his pile of sweets and pushed half of them over to Narcissa's end of the table.

.

* * *

.

"Try again, Draco."

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

"You really aren't focusing hard enough, I can tell."

"You do it then, Granger. Go on, then. Conjure a Patronus."

Ahem. " _Expecto Patronum!"_

"What the _fuck?_ How can you still do it? _How?_ I can't focus on a happy memory for more than two seconds before I remember fucking _Pansy._ "

"Well, maybe if you just told me about the memories you're using, I could help you figure out why they aren't working!"

"It's not my memories, Granger."

"Fine. Try it again, then."

" _Expecto Patronum!"_

Sigh. "Maybe we should take a break."

Draco arched an eyebrow and grinned. "Yes, perhaps we should," he said deviously, tossing his wand to the couch and crossing the room. He placed his hands on her waist and Hermione felt a rush of anticipation, a heat blooming in her abdomen as he lowered his head to kiss her. Her breath caught in her throat and she raised her arms to loop around his neck. He was backing her toward the window sill when she pulled away from him.

"Draco, I don't think I should," she said breathlessly. It wasn't that she didn't _want_ to, but she was still sore from their earlier… activities, and doubted that she would be able to handle it yet. And on top of that, she didn't know what they really _were_ to each other. Sex wasn't all-inclusive when it came to love and relationships - and Hermione wasn't _sure_ what she wanted where that particular aspect was concerned.

"What?" he grinned as her arse collided with the sill, his mouth close to her ear. "You need more time?"

"Er, sort of -" she admitted, not sure of exactly what to say. It was so hard to _think_ when he was doing that.

But then she heard the portrait door open and close, and the sound of muffled footsteps on the stairway. She shoved Draco roughly by the shoulders, who staggered back just in time for Ron to appear in the archway, still dressed in his school robes. "Hermione," he said with one of his lopsided smiles. "I didn't realize you were out of the Hospital Wing. I went to visit, but you weren't there."

"What a perceptive observation," Draco said caustically.

"Malfoy," Ron acknowledged tensely.

"Weasley," replied Draco.

"What were you two doing?" Ron asked suspiciously, nodding to indicate Hermione and Draco's close proximity to one another.

"Practicing the Patronus Charm," Hermione answered quickly.

"Without his wand?" He looked pointedly at the couch, where Draco had indeed discarded it.

"He just got frustrated," she said, shrugging. "Difficult charm, isn't it?"

Ron narrowed his eyes but eventually seemed to accept it, for he then grinned superiorly. "Right. Harry told me you couldn't do it, Malfoy."

"Fucking Potter. Should have known he wouldn't be able to keep his mouth shut," Draco grumbled, swiping his wand from the cushion aggressively.

"Harry said he'd help you," said Ron, shrugging. "If you'd stop being so bloody proud -"

"And I've told him I don't _want_ his help."

Ron glared. "You weren't saying that when we were saving your life," he said coldly, and Malfoy did not seem to have a response other than to glower petulantly back at him. Ron then turned back to Hermione and raised a rolled-up copy of the _Daily Prophet_ that she had not noticed was in his hand."Have you seen the paper?"

Hermione shook her head. She'd had it delivered to her this morning in the Hospital Wing but had sleepily disregarded it, too drowsy from the Pain Potion to care. "Is it about the other night?" she asked, stepping forward to take it from him.

"No. They haven't reported anything on that, actually. Scrimgeour's probably trying to keep quiet about it," said Ron resentfully.'

"Then, what…" Hermione trailed off as she unrolled the paper and gasped. "Oh, that _awful, horrible woman!"_

Draco came up behind her to peer over her shoulder. " _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore,_ " he read aloud. "Rita Skeeter."

"There's an excerpt from the book inside," Ron offered. "You're gonna be furious when you read it, Hermione."

But Hermione was _already_ furious. "The life and lies!" she spat, throwing the _Daily Prophet_ roughly into the armchair. "She couldn't just let him rest in peace, could she? She had to exploit him even in his death!"

"It's bound to be a load of rubbish," Draco said unhelpfully.

"If I'm remembering right, _you_ gave her a few interviews yourself, Malfoy," Ron reminded him.

"That was three _years_ ago, Weaselbee," countered Draco. "Get over it."

" _Get over it -"_

"Oh, shut _up,"_ Hermione huffed. "I'm so sick of you two bickering!"

"Maybe you ought to leave, Weasley," Draco smirked. "You're upsetting the lady."

"Actually, Malfoy, I'm here to walk her down to the Great Hall."

"You're not," Draco objected. "There's still twenty minutes before dinner. We're not done practicing."

"You can't tell her what to do, Malfoy!"

"Then why don't we _ask_ her?" Draco snarled.

And both wizards turned abruptly to Hermione, who faltered. "I…"

She looked anxiously between both boys, who were both watching her intently, each expecting her to choose _him_ over the other. But after seeing the jealous glint in Draco's eye, she regained her footing. "Of course we'll keep practicing, Draco," she said calmly.

"Great," Ron said happily. "I'd love to see you fail at casting the charm."

"You're not staying here, Weasley," Draco said irritably. "Get out."

"You're not the only one who lives here," Ron responded matter-of-factly.

"Ron," Hermione pleaded. "It's going to be more difficult for him to conjure a Patronus if you're watching."

"Hermione," Ron began, looking hurt.

"I'll see you at dinner, Ron," she said, and the finality in her tone must have been enough for him because he turned and walked grumpily out of the common room.

She wheeled around to face Draco furiously. "Why do you always have to goad him?"

"He asks for it."

She moved around him, heading to pick up the _Daily Prophet_ she had tossed into the armchair. "And you're just so innocent and polite?"

"I am very well-mannered, Granger."

"To _whom?_ " she asked, shooting him an evil look over her shoulder as she flipped through the paper, looking for the excerpt from Dumbledore's biography.

"So, you're really not going to tell him to back off?" Draco asked, and she could feel the weight of his eyes on the back of her head.

"I don't think I need to," she said simply. "I've already said I wanted to wait until Hogsmeade."

"Funny, that. Seeing as you won't be going to Hogsmeade with him at all."

She spun around. "I can go to Hogsmeade with him as friends! We've been going to Hogsmeade together for nearly _four years,_ I'm hardly going to quit now, just because -"

"Because what, Granger?" Draco cut in. "Because you're shagging me? I _assure_ you that you won't be off to the village with another man."

" _Shagging?_ " she echoed. "Is that what you think we did? _Shag?_ "

"Well, yes, you see, it's what you call it when a man and a woman -"

" _I know what it means, Malfoy!"_

"So, tell him to back off, Granger. Tell him you aren't interested."

"Ron and I are just friends."

"Oh, _sure,_ because that's what friends do. They hold your hand when you're in the Hospital Wing and come up to escort you to dinner and ask you to Hogsmeade on _dates._ For as clever as you are, Hermione, you don't know a bloody thing about the nature of men."

"I don't know what you were expecting, but if you wanted me to stop speaking with my best friends, you aren't going to get it," she said firmly.

"That's not what I said. I said to break it off."

"What do you want me to say to him, exactly? 'Oh, sorry, Ron, I can't go out with you because I'm too busy being _shagged_ by Draco Malfoy. You understand, don't you?'"

"Would you?" Draco arched an eyebrow. "Would you tell him that?"

"I wouldn't _need_ to, would I? All I would really have to do is… let it, well, fizzle out, right? And then he'd move on."

"Do not be evasive with me, Granger."

"I'm not!"

"Answer the question, then. Would you tell him you were shagging me? Would you tell him you're shagging Draco Malfoy?"

"I - I hardly think that's the relevant point!"

"It is exactly the relevant point," he said flatly.

She narrowed her eyes. "Would you tell your parents? Would you tell your _parents_ you were sleeping with a Mudblood?"

"Don't call yourself a Mudblood, Granger. I haven't called you that in…"

"Days?" she finished. "Since Tuesday night, when we were arguing about your memories? What a long run, Draco! You've _clearly_ turned over a new leaf!"

"That's not -"

" _Answer the question!"_ she mimicked.

"I don't know," he confessed instantly. "I don't know if I would tell my parents."

It was the answer she had been expecting. But it didn't make it hurt any less. She crossed her arms defiantly over her chest and inclined her chin. "Then I won't tell Harry and Ron. Not for as long as we're _shagging._ "

"Look," he said in a much calmer voice. "It's not something I do with just _anyone._ You're not just another girl, Granger."

"But I'm not your _girlfriend,_ so what's the difference, really, between me and the next woman?"

He closed the space between them slowly and, with none of his usual aggression, took her by the chin and kissed her softly. She was almost inclined to melt into him the way she normally would but found that, though her knees were already weak, she could not - _would_ not.

"Are you going to tell me that I'm different?" she asked sarcastically. "That I'm special?"

"Yes, Granger," he said with the air of someone who was trying to be especially patient. "I'm telling you that you're different. You are both those things. Are _you_ going to tell me that you have any clearer an idea of what this is than I have?"

She considered his question as Draco leaned into her, his hands sliding from her shoulders and down to her waist as his nose brushed hers, his storming gray eyes searching and demanding and wanting. She swallowed.

"I'm not here for you to use, Malfoy," she whispered.

"I'm not using you," he growled, fingers digging into the bone of her hips.

"We're going to be late for dinner," she said, turning away from him and thanking Merlin that he hadn't chosen that moment in time to be domineering. Draco's hands left her as she sidestepped him and set the copy of the _Daily Prophet_ on the coffee table on her way to the stairs. "My friends will come looking for me if I don't show up."

.

* * *

.

Hermione knew that she wasn't being fair to Draco, but every time the guilt came rushing up from her stomach as they walked to the Great Hall, she pushed it back down. She had a right to ask the questions she had, and she also had a right to harbor a certain level of bitterness toward him for his answers.

She was, however, logical and pragmatic before she was anything else, and therefore knew that Hermione telling Harry and Ron about Draco was _not_ the same thing as Draco telling his parents about Hermione.

Harry and Ron would be difficult, of course. They'd both feel betrayed, protective, and would probably not even believe it, to begin with - and Ron would likely feel hurt and disregarded that she had chosen a man with whom he had not even known he was competing. But they would get over it, eventually. They'd grow to accept it because they cared so much about her that they wouldn't have another option.

But Draco's parents were another battle altogether. Draco's parents despised her simply for being who she was. They had taught Draco from the time he was a boy that he was superior to her, that she had no right to learn magic, that she was nothing more than a Muggle who could do clever tricks and that he should scorn her for it. Lucius Malfoy had been a _Death Eater,_ for goodness sake.

The difference was in more than just opinions - it was the difference between love and hate. No, it was not fair that Hermione had held it against him.

But wasn't she entitled to make a few demands?

It was true that she didn't know if she wanted Draco Malfoy as her _boyfriend,_ so it was not _fair_ that Hermione had even posed the question (or presumed to be angry about it) when she didn't know what she wanted from him herself. But something her father had told her when she was 13 kept swimming to the front of her mind.

" _Hermione, you are a very beautiful, very loved little girl from a respectable family. No boy has the right to ask you for anything less than your hand in marriage,"_ her father had told Hermione one day when she was on vacation with her parents in France.

Looking back on it, Hermione wondered whether the statement didn't have a ring of truth to it. At the time, she had assumed it was just her cautious father trying to keep his thirteen-year-old little girl away from boys, but now that she was older and had actually _experienced_ sex, she realized that her dad had been trying to protect more than just her virtue. He had been wisely trying to protect her feelings.

But the _sex._ It had been better than she had imagined it would be, although it hurt quite as much as she expected. Even the thought of it... remembering Malfoy's aristocratic features, flushed and taut and totally absorbed in her - in pleasing her - and the way he had completely possessed her and made her feel as though there was nothing else in the world, the way she'd fallen apart around him, and the absolute best, most _exquisite_ feeling she'd ever known, so unraveling that she'd forgotten about the pain altogether. The memory of his pleasured groans as he thrust -

"Careful, Granger," Malfoy said into the silence. She turned her head sharply over to him and saw that he was smirking in that infuriating way again. "If you don't get it together, your friends are going to wonder just what it is you're blushing about."

"I had no idea you were so concerned," Hermione replied curtly but had to look away because she was terrified he would see right through her.

He stopped in front of the towering double doors and, bowing, extended his arm toward them. "Ladies first," he grinned, and Hermione cast a furtive look around the entrance hall, hoping no one had seen.

Of course, if anyone _had_ noticed, they'd probably have just thought he was mocking her as usual.

.

* * *

.

"Hey, Hermione!" Ginny said brightly as Hermione took her seat next to Ron. "We were just saying how happy we were Madame Pomfrey let you out of her lair."

Hermione laughed. "I'm sure she was just trying to be sure I was alright."

But Harry rolled his eyes. "Right, Hermione, because Madame Pomfrey isn't overbearing _at all._ 'I suppose you've been doing something dangerous again?'" he mimicked in a shrill voice.

"Well, you _are_ a bit accident prone," Hermione reasoned.

"A bit?" Ron asked incredulously.

"It's not really surprising she took it so seriously, is it?" Hermione asked. "It was quite a serious situation, after all."

"It was," Harry agreed, looking abruptly vehement. "We still haven't talked about what we're going to do about it -"

"The Slytherins are staring at you lot," Ginny realized suddenly, then raised her voice. "Oi! -"

"No, Ginny!" Hermione hissed. "Just ignore them."

But Ginny didn't. "I suppose you lot think there's something interesting over here to see?" she shouted, and Hermione groaned. The last thing she needed was _more_ problems with Slytherins.

"I suppose they've all heard," Harry muttered as he turned back down to his plate of food.

"'Course they 'ave," Ron tried to say as he gorged himself with Steak and Kidney pie. "'Ole skoo 'nos by 'ow."

"That's disgusting, Ron," Hermione admonished primly.

Ron swallowed. "So has _Malfoy_ come any closer to his Patronus?"

Hermione turned to glare at him. Obviously, he was still sore that she'd asked him to leave her common room. Rather than rise to the bait, she simply shook her head. "I think it's his memories, but he won't tell me which ones he's using, of course."

"Or he's just remembering the other night," Harry suggested. "Hard to conjure a Patronus with that on your mind."

"Do you honestly think he cares _that much,_ Harry?" Ron scoffed.

"He seemed to." Harry shrugged. "I think it's obvious he's not the same as he used to be. What do you think, Hermione?"

Hermione cast her eyes down to her food and feigned nonchalance. "Maybe he's not the same. But he's certainly as foul as usual."

When she glanced up, Ginny had arched one careful brow and was watching Hermione shrewdly over the line of her goblet.

.

* * *

 **Mentions are to Tetrona, a new reviewer and to Cataranka, a very consistent one. :) Thanks, guys.**

 **Narcissa has to be one of my favorite characters and it's such a shame that she wasn't explored further in the books. You guys will be seeing a lot more of her and two other characters.**


	19. Ralston Potter

**Remember that this update is close on the heels of the last, be sure you didn't miss a chapter.**

.

* * *

"Happy to see you've finally shown up for dinner, Draco," Daphne said by way of greeting as Draco slid onto the bench next to her. She flipped her gleaming blond hair over her shoulder and surveyed him with an astute gaze, which Draco chose to ignore. His head was already reeling from Granger's constant back-and-forth and he was not in the mood to play any Slytherin mind games.

"Been tired, I suppose," was his simple response, punctuated by a one-shouldered shrug.

"I can imagine," she said sympathetically. "After Tuesday night, and all."

Draco made a noncommittal noise and reached to grab a pitcher of pumpkin juice, but Daphne was not willing to let the subject drop.

"Pity about Greg and Vince. Although Jackie Dennis and Bradley Thomas are actually rather excited about it, seeing as now they're the permanent Beaters for the house team."

"Right," Draco nodded, concealing his jolt of surprise. How could he have just forgotten all about the Quidditch team? "Well, hopefully, they're better players than those two idiots."

Daphne hummed her agreement and he was aware that both Tracey and Blaise were watching the interaction closely, which Draco tried, again, to ignore. But it was a mark of how much time he'd been spending amongst Gryffindors that he was finding it increasingly tiring to keep up with his friends' innate cunning. Not difficult, just tiring.

"And where's Pansy?" Tracey asked innocently, pretending to be more interested in her dinner as though the question was merely inconsequential table-talk.

"Gone," Draco answered flatly.

"Not in Azkaban?" Daphne inquired.

Draco shrugged. "Dunno. Not sure that I care much where she's gone."

"How's Granger?" Blaise asked, speaking for the first time since Draco had sat down.

What is this, a fucking interrogation?

Draco looked up and matched Blaise's inquiring dark eyes with a level stare. "Wouldn't know, would I, Zabini?"

"Well," Blaise said as he took a bite of his Shepherd's Pie. "You've certainly been spending a lot of time with the mudblood, haven't you?"

Draco narrowed his eyes and tilted his head pointedly. "Side-effect of being Head Boy and Girl, obviously."

"But Astoria said you'd canceled the Prefects' meeting," Daphne pointed out.

"It's hard to have a meeting when the Head Girl can't even properly speak."

"It's just what you hear," said Daphne, and Draco fought the sudden urge to smack her across her pretty face.

"What have you heard, Daphne?" Draco snapped.

"Oh, nothing explicit." She rolled her eyes. "Just that you two've been together in the library on weekends. And that you'd been to the Hospital Wing to visit her. We can't help but wonder…"

Filled with irritation, Draco dropped his cutlery, which clattered noisily onto his plate. "If there's something you lot want to ask, why don't you just ask it and stop being so bloody vague?"

"Right," Blaise said bracingly, straightening out. "You're fucking the Mudblood, aren't you?"

"Blaise," Daphne scolded furiously.

Tracey gasped. "That's just what Pansy said, Draco, we didn't mean -" she rushed out, her eyes wide with shock as she tried to regain a handle on the situation which was spiraling quickly out of control.

It was at that moment that Draco realized that Granger had been spot on as usual. He had been reproachful and hostile towards her unwillingness to be open about their relationship, and out of pure indignance had demanded something of her that he could not even deliver himself. He had thought he wouldn't be afraid of his peers but was instantly and unexpectedly ashamed as soon as he was confronted about her.

He understood now.

It was so easy to be wrapped up in her when they were alone, in the privacy of their common room where no one could see them, where no one could be sure about what was really going on. When there was no one around, he could be entirely entranced by her, but under the scrutinizing glares of his housemates, he was hesitant and exposed.

Draco rose slowly from his seat and placed the flat of his palms against the wooden table, leaning closely to Blaise, who did not retreat but bravely stood his ground. "I wouldn't touch that fucking mudblood if she was the last Muggle on Earth," he whispered menacingly.

Blaise's eyes tapered rapidly into dubious slits, his elegantly defined jaw rigid as he calmly placed his own cutlery on the plate in front of him and got to his feet. He, too, set his hands firmly on the table and angled his torso toward Draco's. "You want to back off, Malfoy."

"Care to make me, Zabini?" Draco dared.

But Daphne intervened quickly, jumping to her feet and taking hold of Draco's shoulder just as Tracey, who was sitting to Blaise's immediate right, leaped up and readied herself to come between them. "That's enough testosterone, I think," Daphne said sternly.

Draco jerked roughly away from her and, shooting an emphasized glare at Zabini's contentious face, sauntered composedly out of the Great Hall, trying very hard not to acknowledge the hundreds of curious stares that followed him as left.

.

* * *

.

He was positively livid, sitting tensely in one of the fluffy armchairs while he waited for her, but it had already been an hour past dinner time and she still had not returned.

Draco was angry for many reasons. He was furious because of Blaise's unsettlingly precise observation, which may have been a result of acute perception or a lucky guess but was, in either case, extremely dangerous. He was resentful of Granger for being right, as she always was, about the need to keep whatever was between them a secret, and peeved because he had not at first realized exactly how much other people's opinions had mattered to him. He was absurdly jealous that she wasn't back in the common room already, and knew that, reasonably, she was probably with all her friends, but could not help the nagging suspicion that she was alone with Weasley.

And the thought made him want to tear his entire dormitory to shreds.

But he hadn't been fair, had he? He had expected honesty from her when he, when it came right down to it, could not do the same. But it was different, wasn't it? Draco didn't have anyone else vying for his attention, whereas Granger was being pursued by two different men. It wasn't too much to ask that she reject Weasley outright, was it?

Couldn't she cut off Weasley's advances without telling him the full story?

No, of course, she couldn't, because she was too decent to tell a flat-out lie. But even that didn't make a whole lot of sense, for she was hiding things from her friends whichever way you spun it. He didn't think she was really considering Weasley as her boyfriend because he knew she didn't want the red-haired imbecile as much as she wanted Draco himself. It wasn't that she was keeping her options open, but that she was either ashamed or scared to admit the truth.

He didn't know which of them was the bigger hypocrite. What was the bottom-line issue, really? Was it Granger's pride or Draco's prejudice that was standing in their way?

He heard the portrait open and close and Granger trudged up the stairs, bushy curls framing her tired-looking face as she appeared in the archway.

"Where've you been, Granger?" Draco asked tightly.

She flipped her hair over her shoulder, crossed her arms over her chest, and gave him a bold look. "I'll thank you not to be so suspicious, Malfoy. Harry, Ron, and Ginny wanted to come back here to see what all the fuss was about between you and Blaise Zabini, so I suggested we go to the Gryffindor common room for a bit instead. I figured it could only cause problems."

Draco sneered but knew that she'd been right. Again. "You weren't with Weasley?"

"Of course, I was with Ron," she said with an exasperated eye roll. "But it's not as if we were alone. I already told you, Malfoy. It doesn't matter what this is -" she made a gesture between them to emphasize. "- there's never going to be a time in my life where I don't talk to my best friends. That's a fact."

Draco pushed himself out of the armchair. "That's not what I asked of you, Granger. But if you don't _tell_ him that you're not interested, he's just going to keep on thinking he can have you -"

"What were you and Zabini quarreling about?" she interrupted.

Draco took in the stubborn fold of her arms and the defiant tilt of her chin, her knowing eyes, and obstinate frown, and realized at once that he could not lie to her. He hated her for it. "You."

Granger's arms fell from her chest and she gave a confused shake of her head. "Me?" she echoed.

"You. Daphne, Tracey, and Blaise wanted to know about you. Whether we were…" He shrugged ambiguously.

"I - but," she stammered. "But how would they _know?_ How would they even think to _ask?"_

"Pansy," he answered simply. "Of course."

"That can't be right," she argued. "It can't be. Crabbe and Goyle are in custody, Pansy's gone, and the only people who were around to hear what she said were you, Ron, Harry, and me. And possibly Snape. There's no one - none of us would spread that around -"

Draco scoffed. "Honestly, Granger? Weren't you the one who pointed out to me that Pansy isn't 'exactly overflowing with discretion'? She had that first year, Charlene Walters, trailing us. Remember? She didn't _know_ for sure but she obviously drew her own conclusions. And if she wanted to alienate me from the rest of my house, that'd be the way to do it."

Granger seemed to accept this, for her shoulders fell defeatedly and she sighed. "Bugger," she murmured and then looked back up at him suddenly, eyes narrowed skeptically at him. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them what you would have wanted me to tell them. That I wouldn't touch you if you were the last woman on Earth," he answered, neatly avoiding the fact that he'd _also_ called her a Mudblood and a Muggle in the very same sentence.

For a moment, Draco wondered if she was going to rebuke him for it, but she didn't. Instead, she changed the subject. "Did you notice that Theo Nott wasn't at dinner?"

He hadn't.

"Well, you clearly don't use your eyes then," she said haughtily.

"Bit _preoccupied,_ wasn't I?"

"Perhaps. Do you think he was in the Room of Requirement? It seems a bit… I dunno, _extreme_ , to miss meals just to finish his task."

But Draco shook his head. "It's not. I skipped meals plenty of times last year trying to get that Vanishing Cabinet to work. Actually, I rarely ate, now I think on it," he said thoughtfully. "You just… you have no idea how terrifying he really is."

"I do. I was at the Department of Mysteries, remember? I watched him and Dumbledore duel."

"It isn't the same," he denied tightly. "It's not the same to just watch him as opposed to standing in front of him and listen to him threaten your family. To know that he'll kill your parents because you've seen him feed grown men to a giant fucking snake. When he's staring at you with those… unnatural red eyes and try to read your mind. It's…" Draco swallowed and then his mind was suddenly very far away, cast into memory as he thought of Voldemort's horrifying appearance and the chilled, stagnant aura that surrounded his person. As if even the air was frightened to go near him. "You just don't understand, Granger."

He glanced up and saw that she was nodding slowly and watching him with a calculated reluctance. "You're right," she finally said. "I don't understand the way you do, Malfoy."

It was a rare concession for Granger to admit she was wrong about anything, but it was also true that he'd never, ever talked to her about his experiences with Voldemort.

"Am I?" he joked. "Is the Great Hermione Granger admitting that Draco Malfoy is _right?"_

"It might happen. Sometimes," she said grudgingly.

"Sometimes," he stated, trying to keep his smirk at bay.

"Snape was missing from dinner, too," Granger revealed. "Where do you suppose he was?"

"Probably tending to his rose garden, Granger," he said sarcastically, which earned him a hesitant grin.

"Probably," she agreed seriously. It was a fair point, though. Where _had_ Snape gone? He hadn't felt his mark burn, and while Snape's absence from dinner didn't necessarily announce anything untoward, Draco found it very doubtful that Snape had missed a meal for any innocuous reason.

"So," she said into the weighted silence that followed their momentary lapse into humor. "Wouldn't touch me if I was the last woman on Earth, would you?"

Draco raised his eyebrows and grinned. "Don't tell me you're offended, after how quickly you spurned me before dinner," he said.

Granger shrugged but met his gaze resolutely. "Maybe I was a bit… confused."

Draco let his eyes wander from her bushy hair, to the hint of her breasts underneath her Muggle sweater and down past her knees, imagining the feminine form that was always invisible but which he knew for a fact was there, because he had seen it and touched it and traced the lines of it with his mouth. He observed her unconventional beauty, the gentle upturn of her lips, the straight line of her nose and her wide eyes, all of her graceful features that were so pretty but which she was so unbelievably modest about.

"Come here, Granger," he requested softly, and she did, taking a few short steps until she was standing in front of him. He raised his hand and brushed the line of her jaw, studying the small scars he was now so familiar with before he tucked a stray curl behind her ear. "Do you know what you want yet?"

"No," she said quietly, and her eyes darted briefly to Draco's lips. "Do you?"

"No." He grabbed her by the hips and hauled her against his own, hands slipping under her sweater and smirking as he watched a pink flush creep across her nose. "Nervous, Granger?"

"No." But Draco saw the apprehension flash through her eyes when his thumbs flicked across the hem of her jeans. "Maybe. A little."

Draco tugged on the denim. "Take them off," he ordered, already hooked by her simple and yet enrapturing allure. He wondered if he woud ever be able to resist her again, whether he'd ever be able to keep his desire at the same distance he had three weeks ago when he'd yielded to his better judgment as opposed to his fervent lust.

Granger took a step back and lifted the pink, woolen article over her head. Draco mirrored her movements, unbuttoning his own shirt slowly as she unclasped and then removed her bra. She shimmied out of her jeans, eyes drifting timidly to Draco's belt as he unbuckled it and yanked it through the loops of his expensive slacks.

After Draco had undressed and she finally came out of her knickers, Granger straightened out and inhaled a heavy breath of air, evident in the rise and fall of her chest. "Malfoy," she whispered. "You know I don't want anyone else but you, don't you?"

It was such a plain and uncomplicated statement, but Draco was sure he had never heard a woman say anything so seductive before in his life. He pushed her roughly down onto the couch and knelt over her, curling a hand into her thick mane and drawing her head backward.

"Say it again," he demanded, eyeing the taut, exposed skin of her neck.

"I don't want anyone else but you," she said weakly and Draco growled as he dragged his tongue along her throat before he moved to kiss her aggressively.

"Are you still sore?" he asked when he pulled away. Granger nodded and he swore in the privacy of his own mind, wishing that he could take her the way he wanted to take her, the way he _needed_ to take her. But he couldn't, not when she would be in too much pain to properly enjoy it.

Instead, he pushed her legs apart and trailed kisses - softer, this time - down her front, allowing his hands to linger over her breasts and then her abdomen as he brought his head level with her hips. He leaned forward and breathed lightly into her heat and she writhed, but Draco held her pelvis steady. "This won't hurt, Granger," he told her. "Be still."

She seemed to relax minimally, but the tension was still obvious in the visible set of her thighs. Draco flicked the tip of his tongue gently over her clit and she shook with pleasure. He raised his eyes to watch her and could see that she had gripped the cushions, her breasts arching beautifully as her back came off the couch. She moaned when he exhaled and torturously dragged his tongue over her opening, where he knew that her pleasure would be incomplete.

"Which is better? This?" he asked, licking at the top of her clit. "Or that?"

" _This,_ " she gasped, and he repeated the motion until her hips were gyrating in time with his movements. He pushed his tongue in and out of her slit and then up and over, drawing circles over the spot she preferred. Her shuddering body was as much as he ever could have asked for, but it _wasn't_ all that he needed. When her tremors became quick and uncontrollable, he drew back, relishing her sudden and immediate need.

"Draco, _no!"_ she moaned. "Don't stop!"

"My name, Granger?" he prompted smoothly, teasing her with a single, gentle lap across her apex.

"Malfoy," she whined, desperate for her imminent release. "Please."

"Wrong name," he taunted, licking twice.

" _Draco."_

He delved his tongue into her with a new intensity, slipping two fingers into her slick opening so that she would be ready for him as he swirled his tongue over her clit, and then he heard her heightened moans and felt her orgasm when she came, quivering and writhing into his mouth. When, at last, her spasms had faded, Draco crawled over her and slowly filled her with his rigid length, savoring her gasp of satisfaction and watching her face for signs of discomfort. But she didn't seem to be in pain; she looked sated and content, with lidded eyes and parted lips and soft breaths.

Draco pumped into her and wondered if he could make her come a second time - but no, she was too tight, too warm, too everything, and there was no way he would last. He cupped her face as he moved, running his thumb along her bottom lip in admiration of this witch who had somehow found a way to captivate him completely.

"Draco," she whispered, her nails running gently through his hair as her eyes fluttered shut.

It was all he could take.

With one final thrust and a shattered groan, Draco allowed his shaking pleasure to overtake him, and when it was over, he slid his forearms under her shoulders and buried his head into her neck, greedily inhaling her irresistible scent.

"Hermione," he muttered blissfully, his fingers gliding through her hair.

"Yes?" she breathed, but her voice sounded miles away. He lifted his head to observe her and could not contain his smile.

She was falling asleep.

"Nevermind," he said, and he shifted his body off of hers, bracing his back against the couch and turning her on her side. The last thing he remembered was the image of the roaring fire blazing in the hearth, the feel of her skin as she rested against him, and the graceful curve where his hand draped over her hip.

.

* * *

.

Severus Snape absolutely loathed leaving the castle. Not because he wasn't eager to be free of its walls, which sometimes became suffocating and oppressive, but because he _hated_ to walk the long road from Hogsmeade. In past years, transportation to and from Hogwarts was much simpler - as long as one had permission, he could use Floo powder or any other means of travel, and if the situation was immediate enough, the Headmaster could simply lift the wards for the small space of time necessary to disapparate. But with the Dark Lord's steady rise and the circumstances being as dire as they were, there could be no temporary relaxing of the castle's defenses for any reason.

And Severus _hated_ Thestrals. So rather than suffering through the carriage ride, he walked.

What could have been a five-minute trip to Grimmauld Place was therefore no less than three agonizing hours (there and back,) which was, in Severus' opinion, far too long to simply deliver a Pain Relieving Potion for Lucius Malfoy. If it was only to ease Lucius' anguish, Severus would not have done it; for Narcissa, whose feelings he could not bear to injure and whose mind was constantly on the brink of hysteria, he would make the sacrifice.

Severus muttered the incantation that would allow him passage into the entrance hall and drew his wand from eye-level down, hearing the audible click of the locks as they unfastened and then the loud grinding of wood-on-stone as the doors opened. He slipped into the castle and warded the door behind him, ascending the stairs immediately.

He was not heading for his office, but to the Heads' common room. If he could just convince Draco Malfoy to leave the country, it may be possible for Severus' own life to be spared. But it was with a grim countenance that he traveled up the Grand Staircase, somehow knowing that there would be no budge in Draco's resolve. If Severus did not even _attempt_ to persuade him, however, the Unbreakable Vow may just kill him where he stood, which was a very thin line to tread.

It was ironic, really, that the Unbreakable Vow was meant to be so cut-and-dry - either you kept your promise and lived, or you failed to do so and perished - but in this case was somehow precisely the opposite. The particular Vow he had made was vague to say the very least. He had sworn to protect Draco Malfoy, but in this situation, there were so many wrong moves to be made, so many missteps that could result in Severus' own death. How, _exactly,_ was he supposed to presume to protect Draco when the boy was in constant danger regardless of where he was? All of the students were in mortal peril at any given time, but the threat was most immediate to Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Draco Malfoy simply because they _were who they were._

Each of them had an exorbitant bounty on his or her head, and Severus could do nothing but dread the day of reckoning where only fate could decide whether they lived or died.

There were, perhaps, some calculated moves he could make that would help them, but Albus had vehemently argued that Harry Potter could _not_ know that he, himself, was a Horcrux, that he _must_ die in order to defeat Voldemort once and for all. Severus did not understand it but also understood precious little that Albus had believed and had even less comprehension of the man's extensive manipulations.

Albus Dumbledore had sworn that he knew what he was doing, that there was only one course of action that Severus was allowed to take, but even _that_ possibility was slim if the four of them did not follow the steps Albus had laid out for them.

And how could they, when Albus had _not even explicitly laid it out for them at all?_

He had a sickening sense of foreboding in his gut at all times, his mind reeling with _what ifs._ What if the children never got what Albus had left them in his will? What if they were unable to call the sword of Gryffindor and Severus himself was not able to send it to them? What if he was not even able to _find_ them after they left the castle? What if Theodore Nott killed one of them before they had an opportunity to do what had to be done?

There were just so many problems, so many things that could go horribly wrong.

But Albus had said. He'd promised. And even though Severus could barely recall a time when he didn't trust Albus Dumbledore, he found that his faith was waning every single day.

"Basilisk," he said blankly, and the portrait swung open to admit him because, _of course,_ neither of these two idiots would have the foresight to change the password. He climbed the staircase quickly, but when he emerged through the archway, stopped dead in his tracks.

There they were, the two of them. The Malfoy heir was lying peacefully on his common room couch, and Hermione Granger, the Muggle-born know-it-all, was _wrapped in his embrace._ A duvet covered their vulnerable forms, but the naked outline of their shoulders told Severus all he needed -or indeed _wanted -_ to know.

He looked swiftly away from his students and rushed out, leaping through the portrait hole so that he could race down the corridor and put as much distance between himself and this horrible development as possible.

"Fuck!" he swore aloud, his fists tightly clenched to steady his hands from trembling. Several portraits turned to gape curiously at him.

Severus very rarely deigned to curse, but it was the only word that was appropriate for this situation.

Because Severus Snape had never seen Draco Malfoy look so happy in his entire life, which meant that both wizards were, quite literally, well and truly _fucked._

 _._

* * *

.

Draco woke slowly on Saturday morning. It was perhaps the first time in a year that he had opened his eyes and had no memories of nightmares, no paralyzing sense of fear, and no exhaustion from having lay awake through the night. When his eyelids fluttered open, he noted with satisfaction that he was still tangled in Granger's slender limbs and thought that he could probably stay here all day with her were it not for the fact that he had Quidditch Practice that afternoon. He relaxed back into the cushions, ready to fall back to sleep for another few hours before a jolting realization hit him.

 _Any_ of her friends might have walked through that portrait and seen them. How could he have been so completely daft?

Grumbling, he gently disengaged himself and dressed, exiting through the portrait hole and closing the painting behind him. His task had taken less than a minute, but when he entered the common room again, Granger had evidently felt the loss of him because she was awake, rubbing her eyes and looking very confused. It was a very endearing sight to behold.

"Morning, sunshine," he said, smirking.

"Where did you go?" she responded sleepily, propping herself up on her arms and brushing her curls out of her face.

"I changed the password."

"What?" she asked, her voice still scratchy from sleep. "Why?"

"Because we passed out naked, Granger. Any of your little pet morons could have come in here," he said frankly.

"You _what?_ No, Malfoy, you can't just do that. They have a right to come here!" she exclaimed, jumping off the couch and grabbing for her clothes.

Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "This coming from the girl who's so adamant not to tell them. Don't you think it's better if the passwords been changed? Seeing as how you want to be so secretive."

"We most certainly will not change the password, Malfoy," she said stiffly and after she had dressed, stomped out of the portrait hole.

He followed after her, catching the portrait just as she was about to slam it in his face.

"Excuse me," she said politely to the painting's inhabitants. "My roommate here thought it would be a good idea to change the password, but I disagree. Can we please change it back to 'Basilisk'?"

"Are you always this slow when you wake up?" Draco asked rudely. "Don't you think it would be _prudent_ to change the password and just tell your stupid friends what we've changed it to?"

Granger ignored him, so focused was she on the response she was receiving from the painting.

The foremost wizard had straightened his form and was nodding proudly. "Certainly, lady. Which password would you have?"

But the witch sitting directly across from him had wailed with indignance. "You can't allow them to change their password as often as they _want,_ Potter!" she chided, brandishing a quill at him for emphasis. "That's your problem, that is! Always letting people do whatever it is they please, just like your precious Muggles -"

"I don't see why not," the wizard retorted, shooting the witch a scathing glare.

" _Potter?"_ Granger and Draco said together.

The inhabitants of the portrait turned to face them as one, and the other members of the Wizengamot also paused in their raised benches to observe the exchange.

"Yes. Ralston Potter," he confirmed, and Granger raised both of her hands to cover her mouth before she took off at a run toward the Gryffindor dormitories.

.

* * *

.

Draco had retreated into the common room to wait for her, knowing that he would be aware of the exact moment of her arrival because he would _hear_ them all, chatting annoyingly in that companionable way of theirs. And when he finally did catch the voices in the corridor, he pushed through the portrait hole to see Potter and Weasley's sleep-mussed faces.

"Excuse us, Malfoy," Weasley snapped, his red-hair still wild from not having brushed it. Obviously, Granger had got them out of bed. "We're trying to have a conversation here."

"Top of the mornin' to you too, Weaselbee," Draco said smugly, although the other wizard could possibly know what Draco had been really gloating about. He closed the painting behind him and Granger pointed enthusiastically.

"Look, Harry!" she said happily. "It's Ralston Potter. He must be your ancestor!"

Potter was observing the painting skeptically. "Is it true, er, sir? Is your name Ralston Potter?"

And the Wizard from the painting nodded proudly. "Indeed, it is. Ralston Potter, member of the Wizengamot and champion of the International Statute of Secrecy!" he intoned, rising from his chair to give a low bow.

The witch scoffed and released a long chain of expletives. Evidently, she was against the International Statute of Secrecy, which Draco now knew must be the reason why the two of them were constantly arguing.

The real-life Potter smiled broadly. "I'm Harry Potter."

He seemed genuinely pleased, ecstatic even, to learn that he had an ancestor somewhere in these halls, and Draco felt a short-lived but very real pang of pity for him. Of course, it was natural that he was happy to have found a piece of his family here. He didn't have any living relatives to speak of.

"My descendant!" Ralston Potter shouted, throwing his arms out wide and knocking several scrolls of parchment to the painted ground. "What an honor! Tell me, my dear boy, do you support the International Statute of Secrecy?"

"Er," the real-life Potter responded uncertainly. "If… if you mean that I'd rather Muggles lived in ignorance than be murdered by wizards, then, yeah. I do."

Ralston Potter was beside himself with glee. He marched a ridiculous circle around the foremost table while the witch sank petulantly into her chair, glowering at the wizard with the utmost contempt. "Of course, he is!" she said disdainfully.

But Draco wasn't convinced. "How do you know it's really your ancestor?" he asked with genuine curiosity rather than an intention to rain on Harry Potter's parade. "Potter's rather a common name, isn't it?"

Weasley looked ready to burst with anger, and Potter merely looked as though Draco had made a good point. It was Granger who answered, with an eager shake of her head. "No. It's a common _Muggle_ name, but I've never read about _any_ other wizarding family with the same surname. Harry, it has to be your relative!"

Potter seemed to accept that she was right, for he was watching the painting with awe, a fervent appreciation that Draco had never witnessed in him apparent on his face. "Thank you, Hermione," he said without looking at her.

"Hey!" Weasley said abruptly. "I've had an idea."

Draco scoffed. "Right, because another disaster is _exactly_ what we need right now."

"Shut up, Malfoy," Weasley responded, but the statement was devoid of any malice. He seemed to be too keen on his idea to put any effort into it. "How many portraits are there in Hogwarts?"

The question was clearly rhetorical, but Draco answered anyway. "That's your brilliant idea, Weasley? Count the number of portraits in the castle?"

"Shut up, Malfoy," he repeated, smiling. "How many? Hundreds? Thousands? One of them's _got_ to be Rowena Ravenclaw!"

Draco witnessed a bright light come on in Granger's face, and she was soon smiling from ear-to-ear, looking both very elated and very surprised. "Ron!" she cried loudly. "You're a genius!"

.

* * *

 **Credits: According to Pottermore, Ralston Potter was Harry Potter's ancestor. He was a member of the Wizengamot and helped to pass the International Statute of Secrecy in the 17th century, as he was pro-Muggle and wanted them to live in ignorance rather than to have wizards be militant against them. Funnily enough, when I wrote the 2nd chapter (in which I introduced the painting that lead to Draco and Hermione's dormitory) I was still in prison and had no idea who Ralston Potter was or that he had anything to do with the International Statute of Secrecy. It was just a happy coincidence that worked out in my favor.**

 **Mentions for this chapter go to pgoodrichboggs and Dreamshards8**


	20. Ginny

.

"Minerva, if I might have a word with Albus alone?" Severus Snape implored the new Headmistress as he stepped into the circular office. Gone from the desk were the funny instruments Dumbledore had kept, banished to the cabinets that lined the walls but still ticking and spinning away from behind the glass. Fawkes, too, had departed, the ornate perch where the magnificent bird had lived now empty and his ash _Scourgified._ Severus had never known this room to be so forlorn and absent of its many eccentricities, but to be fair, McGonagall was considerably less bizarre than her predecessor.

The old witch, who seemed to have taken even more lines in her tired face, looked up from the parchment on which she was scribbling and eyed him over her spectacles. "I am quite busy, Severus. Perhaps another time?"

"I would not ask if it were not of dire importance," Severus told her.

Minerva pursed her lips and then sighed, pulling the reading glasses from her face and allowing them to hang from the chain that circled her neck. "Very well. I think I shall need to call at Grimmauld Place," she said resignedly, bracing her hands against the desk and pushing herself up from the chair. "No one is willing to take the Transfiguration position. I have written to everyone there is - I'm afraid I shall have to use my last resort."

"You think it would be _wise_ to have her teaching here?"

"What choice do we have?" Minerva answered frankly. "With You-Know-Who gaining power so quickly, there is no one willing to take the post. _She,_ on the other hand, would likely be ecstatic."

"In her condition? I do not think -"

The Headmistress cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand as she moved toward the door. "Oh, she's not that far along. It isn't as though it is particularly strenuous work, after all. Do not fret over the time, Severus. I am sure that I shall not return before lunch."

And with that, she disappeared through the wooden doors and was gone.

"Severus," a happy, disembodied voice sounded from the wall. "This is the first time since my death that you have sought to converse with me. You have been angry, I gather?"

"Are you surprised?" Severus said slowly, pulling Minerva's high-backed chair away from the desk and placing it in front of Dumbledore's portrait.

Albus' likeness gave a small shrug as Severus lowered himself into the seat. "I have long since ceased to be surprised by you. What is it you have come to ask?"

Severus gave a pointed look toward the towering wall above him, where the ever-nosy Phineas Nigellus was already feigning sleep. " _Muffliato."_

Surely enough, Phineas' eyes snapped open and regarded Severus with sincere dislike, to which Severus responded only with a challenging arch of both his eyebrows. Phineas' gave a snooty _hmph_ and disappeared from his portrait.

He turned back to Albus, who was watching him expectantly. Severus then exhaled a heavy breath of frustration, wondering exactly how to put into words what he did not want to speak out loud to anyone at all. But who else was there to turn to? "It appears that Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger have started a relationship."

"Really?" Albus said with obvious amusement. "Do you know for certain?"

"I'm quite positive," Severus said through his teeth, resisting the urge to visibly wince at the memory. _Of course, he would not have come if he were not sure, if he had not_ seen _with his own eyes._

"Openly?" Albus prompted.

"Of course, not."

"Well, matters have turned out far better than I expected them to," Albus said jovially.

" _Better?"_ Severus demanded. "How, with your _infinite_ brilliance, can you think anything good can come of this? I shall never be able to convince him to leave the country."

"Love, Severus," was the former Headmasters predictable response. Always love, the cryptic answer to everything in the all-seeing eyes of Albus Dumbledore. "It brings the best out of all people, even that which has been buried so deeply that it would never have been revealed in other circumstances."

"I hardly think the two of them are in _love."_ Severus scoffed.

"Ah," Albus realized aloud. "They are…"

Severus gave a curt nod and was privately grateful that Albus had chosen not to complete his sentence. Severus himself blanched at the very idea of what he had walked in on, the sheer _inappropriateness_ of it all.

"Love may not be so far away," Albus reasoned.

"You think they are even capable of sharing such a strong emotion with one another?" Severus asked disdainfully. "With their history? With Draco's upbringing? They have hated each other for years."

"I find that the line between love and hate is very thin indeed," Albus mused, adopting a far-off look and gazing somewhere beyond Severus' shoulder. "One form of passion shifts quite easily to its opposite, does it not?"

"There are plenty of pureblood bigots who choose to indulge but whose perspectives never genuinely change," Severus pointed out. "For him to _love_ Hermione Granger is quite another matter altogether."

"Perhaps," Albus agreed. "But he has already made significant changes in his loyalties. It is not so outrageous to believe that he is experiencing the same upheaval in other aspects of his views."

Severus grumbled a disagreement and cast his gaze out the window, watching the pale morning light as it spilled into the room.

"Come now, Severus," Albus said candidly. "Have you no faith? It would not be the first time that a wizard who had an affinity for darkness was driven to the Light by his love for a witch. You shall know all about that."

" _Faith?"_ Severus hissed irately. "You speak of _faith_ and _love_ when I have the threat of certain death hanging over my head?"

"You would choose to separate them," Albus surmised.

"I would choose to live, yes," Severus answered tightly.

"How selfish of you," Albus chuckled. "But surely, you must know by now that I never had intentions of the four of them parting ways."

"You maintain that Draco's role is so imperative?"

"I do. Draco Malfoy is, as of this moment, an integral part of the gathering war."

"And when Voldemort takes over the Ministry? What shall become of Draco? How will I be able to protect him then?" Severus asked, forgetting his aggravation and replacing it with desperate honesty.

"I suspect that when the moment arrives, you may have to reveal your true allegiances in order to protect him."

"And if that time comes too soon? What if it is not close enough to the end, and there is no one to provide enough insight into the Dark Lord's plans?"

Albus considered this for a moment. "I believe that Harry shall have sufficient insight via his connection with Voldemort, and by that time your place in his circle will no longer be necessary. Even now, things are drawing to a rapid close. Has the Minister relinquished his hold on the items I have left them in my will?"

"He has not."

"What you shall need to do is be _absolutely_ sure that they receive them. It is critical," Albus ordered.

"And if I drop dead before then?" Severus snapped.

"Severus, I would not have expected you to be so heartless," Albus said softly. "You will have no choice but to protect Draco the same way you watched over Harry. From afar. You don't really mean to tell me you would seek to come between them, do you? Not when the relationship between Draco and Hermione is parallel in so many ways to yours and Lily's."

.

* * *

.

They had spent the remainder of the morning scouring the halls of the castle in search of Rowena Ravenclaw's portrait. Hermione had immediately suggested the four of them split up and take different floors in order to cover more ground, but Harry, Ron, and Draco had disagreed, arguing that there was " _no way you're walking the halls alone while Nott is still in the castle."_

Draco, unsurprisingly, was just as vehement on the subject as the other two, which had earned him a very suspicious look from Ron, and the two had subsequently come very near to drawing their wands on one another during an irrelevant dispute about Draco's loyalties to the Order.

Before the two of them could delve into the subject of exactly _who_ Hermione should go with, she had taken hold of Harry's arm and marched down the corridor without looking back. Lucky for her, Harry had been determined enough to achieve their goal that he had not asked any questions about Draco's insistences whatsoever, and she breathed a sigh of relief when he immediately began interrogating different portraits rather than Hermione herself.

It was also possible that Hermione was being paranoid, and that no one was paying as much attention to either of them as she thought they were - but she couldn't help but be paralyzed with fear every time Draco so much as opened his mouth in the company of Harry and Ron. She kept feeling that her two best friends would _know_ , would read into Draco's inflections and surmise that there was a relationship between them and that every word she spoke was inviting an inquisition into her suddenly very private life. She knew, intellectually, that it was an absurd notion and that both Harry and Ron were completely oblivious when it came to reading other people, even to the point where they had no idea what they're _own_ feelings even were. Still, she was terrified that they would be discovered.

She was horrible, Hermione realized, at keeping secrets from her friends. But she also knew that there was no way she would be able to take back what she had done. Nor did she want to.

There was simply no denying what had sparked between Draco and herself, and she _knew_ that it was more than just sex, at least on her end of things. And as far as Draco's part was concerned, she was sure he didn't have the slightest clue what was really happening either - it could be that his feelings for her were based purely on lust and the need to possess something. But did that _really_ add up? He had come for her, after all, had shown up to rescue her and had in fact offered to go with Pansy in her place when he realized he would fail.

Everything had become so suddenly, glaringly real that night. It had transformed into something that seemed impossibly superficial into something that had depth and was palpable. Tangible.

 _Because I care, alright? I care. And don't go getting all love-struck about it, Granger._

 _I'll go with you._

 _Just leave her._

And Pansy.

 _How sweet, Draco. You would sacrifice your life so the mudblood can live?_

 _Pansy. Pansy, please, just leave her._

And yesterday, when she had made the decision that she could not force herself to regret.

 _I wanted to visit, Granger, but that idiot was always there._

 _Right, Granger. That I'm involved with a Muggle-born._

 _Yes, Granger. I'm telling you that you're different,_

 _I'm not using you._

She had thought he was using her because that's what the old Draco Malfoy would have done. If he had deigned to sleep with a Muggleborn at all. But he wasn't the same Draco Malfoy, was he? No, she could not deny what they had. But what currently plagued Hermione was how to reconcile their strange relationship with her real life. It was a problem that was much too difficult to solve when neither party was yet willing to make an actual commitment.

Draco clearly expected it from her, but what else could she do? What was she supposed to tell her friends? Yes, I've grown to care deeply for Draco Malfoy, but no, we're not in a relationship? Yes, we're sleeping together, but no, we're not in love? Now _that_ was a laughable scenario. And yet, she knew that there was no way she could continue to lie to her friends. Even now the pressure was suffocating, both from her guilt that she hadn't told Ron she couldn't be with him and from Draco's demands that she make herself clear on that particular matter.

And then there was Harry. She stole a sideways glance at the messy-haired wizard as they combed through the seventh floor. He would be more receptive to it than Ron would, to be sure, but she was positive his reaction would be volatile regardless. Hermione wasn't sure she could just spring something like that on him when he had so many more pressing thoughts to deal with.

"None of these portraits are being the least bit helpful," he muttered frustratedly. "What's the big deal about Ravenclaw's portrait? It's like they don't want us to find it."

Hermione sighed. "I expect they're rather used to it by now. I'm sure plenty of students have gone searching for her trying to find the Lost Diadem. Not to mention the _last_ one who went looking was probably Tom Riddle, and look how _he_ turned out."

"Probably," Harry agreed as they neared the Divination corridor. They rounded the corner together and, to their surprise, found the lanky form of Ron Weasley, who was beaming widely up at one of the portraits, right in the middle of his second brilliant idea of the day.

"Harry! Hermione!" he smiled triumphantly. "I've figured it out."

Hermione shared an apprehensive look with Harry, for both of them knew that the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw could not possibly be in the Divination corridor, or they'd have seen it already. The two of them neared the painting with confused expressions, then Harry laughed.

It was Sir Cadogan.

"State your business!" the knight demanded, clutching his over-large sword as he dismounted his pony. "Announce your intentions or perish, scoundrel!"

To Hermione's shock, Ron then bowed deeply. "Knight," he said, raising his head up although his back was still stooped. "I present you with a quest."

"A quest!" Cadogan yelled enthusiastically, swinging his sword upward in a blind sideways arch which his pony narrowly avoided by trotting to the left.

Ron stumbled a bit on his words then. "Indeed. We, er… require your assistance. To find the portrait of one of the founders of this school, Rowena Ravenclaw."

Harry stifled a laugh, but Sir Cadogan seemed to be delighted.

"There is no knight in this castle more suited for such a valiant journey than Sir Cadogan!" He struggled to climb onto the pony, who already looked weary under Sir Cadogan's weight. "I shall rescue the fair lady!"

Ron's eyes went wide. "N-no! No! You don't need to _rescue_ her, just _find_ her. And tell us where she's at. So we can talk to her."

"Yah!" Cadogan cried, ignoring him. He then smacked the rear-end of the unfortunate pony, who promptly cantered away and disappeared into the next portrait.

"Well done, Ron," Harry laughed once the knight and pony had gone. "But I think you could've just asked him normally and he'd have done it."

Ron shrugged sheepishly. "Maybe… you don't think he's going to try and kidnap her from her portrait, do you?"

"Let's hope not," Hermione said seriously. "She'll probably never talk to us then."

"Too late to take it back now," said Harry. "We should find Malfoy, I guess. Tell him that he doesn't need to look for Ravenclaw anymore."

"Why don't we just let the stupid git keep searching?" Ron suggested as though this was a very good idea. Actually, it's probably exactly what they all would have done a month ago.

"We won't need to," Hermione put in, looking at her watch. "He'll have taken a break. It's lunchtime."

So the three of them made their way down to the Great Hall, having had to wait several times for the staircases to change landings before they finally walked through the doors. Hermione resisted the urge to check if Malfoy had indeed beaten them to lunch as they approached the Gryffindor table - the last thing she needed was someone speculating on why she was looking toward the Slytherins at all.

Hermione chose a seat next to Harry, and Ron plopped himself down across from them and began piling food onto his plate.

She was quite glad that Ron had thought to send Cadogan to find Ravenclaw because she was really in desperate need of a shower. She'd been too excited this morning to go back to her dormitory and waste time when there was a Horcrux to be found, but now that she knew she wouldn't have to be spending the afternoon wandering the corridors, she could look forward to a nice bath and, being that Draco would be at Quidditch practice and could therefore not distract her, a few hours of study - which she had been severely neglecting since her stay in the Hospital Wing.

Harry and Ron were in the middle of a deep discussion about that very sport when Ginny strode into the hall, carrying with her that usual air of confidence she flaunted at all times. She took the only seat near them still available - next to Hermione - and smiled beautifully. "Where've you lot been all morning? I was looking for you, but you changed the password to your common room, Hermione."

"I didn't change it, Malfoy did," Hermione said pointedly. "I'll tell you when there's no one around."

Ginny nodded. "Been a bit dull in the Gryffindor tower," she rolled her eyes and shot a glare at Ron. "Lav-Lav's been gossiping with Parvati all day."

Ron choked on his crisps. "Gossiping? About who?"

" _Whom,"_ Hermione corrected.

"Don't pry, Ron. Men aren't supposed to gossip. It's unbecoming," Ginny said pompously. "Why do you want to know what _Lav-Lav_ 's been saying?"

Harry snickered.

"Don't call her that," Ron whispered moodily, glancing fearfully toward Lavender and Parvati who were only a handful of seats away. "And keep your voice down, or she'll hear you."

Ginny flipped her gleaming red hair over her shoulder. "Anyway, I was thinking we should get back to practicing tomorrow if we can check whether the field's already been booked. Nigel needs a bit more training before -"

As she leaned across Hermione to reach for the pumpkin juice, Ginny stopped talking mid-sentence. She turned her head slowly toward Hermione's body and met her eyes with a penetrating stare, her lips parting slightly as though she were very taken aback by some unknown realization.

Hermione's heart stopped under the gravity of her friend's shrewd look and she leaned away from her, wondering what Ginny could possibly be thinking. But it turned out not to matter, because Ginny took hold of Hermione's wrist and, jumping to her feet, dragged Hermione off the bench.

"Come on, Hermione. Let's go to your common room."

Feeling as though this situation was heading swiftly for disaster, Hermione resisted. "Er, I was headed to the library after lunch," she lied, unsure of what was going on but knowing intuitively that this was something to be avoided.

" _Come on,_ Hermione," she ground out. "I'll braid your hair."

Hermione cast a pleading look toward at boys, who were watching in utter bewilderment but made no move to stop Ginny lead Hermione out of the Great Hall.

 _Cowards_ , she thought scathingly.

.

* * *

.

Ginny did not speak the entire way to the seventh floor. In fact, she did not even so much as glance at Hermione, just stared straight ahead, fists swinging at her sides until they came to a stop in front of her common room's portrait.

Filled with apprehension, Hermione said, "Almerick Sawbridge," and the painting swung forward to admit them. It wasn't until they had ascended the staircase and were in the middle of the common room that Ginny rounded on her.

The other witch took in a fistful of Hermione's sweater and pulled her close, bending her head down to the fabric and inhaling. Her suspicions confirmed, Ginny backed up and gaped openly at her with both hands on her hips. She looked just like Mrs. Weasley, ready to reprimand her children for one of their many transgressions.

" _Hermione!"_ Ginny said incredulously. "You smell like a man."

"Err, I -" she stammered. _Blast._ This couldn't be happening. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

"Well, that's a bit _rude,_ Ginny. I haven't showered today, but -"

"You know that isn't what I mean," Ginny snapped. "I smelled it when I leaned across you."

"I -"

"Don't even try to lie to me, Hermione! I _know_ what men smell like."

Hermione sighed and covered her face with her hands, trying to hide the evidence of her furious blushing. "Look, Ginny…"

"Hermione Jean Granger," Ginny said sternly. "Stop treating me like all I am to you is Ron's sister. I'm a woman and your friend. Look at me."

 _Fuck._

She wanted to deny it, but her instinct told her that this was not something she could run away from. She'd been found out and there was no way Ginny was going to leave the common room without answers - this was _bad,_ Hermione knew, but there was perhaps still some damage control to be done while the two witches were talking amongst themselves. She could convince Ginny not to tell, maybe even not to _ask_ whose smell it was.

Hermione raised her head bravely and let her hands fall back down to her sides. "Okay, Ginny. You're right."

But Ginny was not through with her yet, for she had apparently seen something else of interest.

"Hermione! You're hair!" she shrilled, taking a step forward and unabashedly reaching for the curls that were just behind Hermione's ear. Ginny felt the knot Draco had created with his hands the night before, which Hermione had planned to untangle with her wand when she got the chance to take a shower. She'd been _sure_ her hair would not appear any wilder than it normally did, but there was no escaping Ginny's acute perception. "It's _knotted."_

Ginny cocked her head to the side, and Hermione _saw_ the understanding when it came over her friend's face. Shocked, Ginny paced backward and covered her mouth with both hands. Hermione closed her eyes and braced herself for the inevitable.

" _You've been shagged!"_ she accused, and Hermione's composure left her body all at once. She staggered over to the couch and practically collapsed into it, propping her elbows on her knees and dropping her forehead into her hands.

"You weren't supposed to find out this way," Hermione spoke into her palms, her mane of curling hair drifting in front of her face like a curtain.

"Tell me it isn't Malfoy, Hermione," Ginny said warily, but when Hermione looked slowly up at her, the silence was all Ginny needed. She sank into the armchair, both hands pressed against her cheeks as she stared at Hermione in utter disbelief. "Oh, Gods. I knew it. _I knew it!"_

"Ginny -"

"Harry told me what Pansy Parkinson said when she was going to kidnap you, but _Merlin,_ Hermione - "

"It's not -"

"It's not _what,_ Hermione? It clearly, _clearly is!"_

"I don't know how to explain it, Ginny. It just - happened. It just happened and -"

" _It just happened?_ You just slipped and landed on Malfoy's todger, or what?" Ginny said cruelly.

Hermione blushed red as she narrowed her eyes sternly at her friend. "There's no need to be vulgar," she said directly. "I'm not ashamed of what I did and I'm not going to allow you to humiliate me for it. Wasn't it you who told Ron that it wasn't any of his business who you go out with or what you do with them?"

"I - well, yes -" sputtered Ginny, her rant obviously losing force. "I just, he's going to _hurt_ you, Hermione. You don't think he really _cares_ about you, do you?"

"Yes, Ginny," Hermione responded, "I do think he cares about me. And he's different now. He's changed."

"Really?" Ginny asked. "Has he really changed? Isn't he still arrogant?"

"Well, yes, a bit, but -"

"Doesn't he still goad Harry and Ron?"

"Only as much as they goad _him!"_ Hermione insisted.

"Isn't he still prejudiced? Or did you forget that he's been spitting insults at you since you lot were in first year."

But Hermione didn't have an answer to that question. "He's on our side, Ginny," she finally said. "His whole family are on our side."

"He accepted Dumbledore's help because he's a _coward,_ Hermione. He's always been a coward," said Ginny unkindly. "He's a coward and a bigot and a prick, and I can't believe you would lower yourself -"

" _Don't_ insult him!" Hermione bristled. "I haven't _lowered_ myself, Ginny, and frankly, I'm _astounded_ that you would presume to shame me. You're acting like a sexist jerk."

Ginny straightened out in the armchair, looking very foolish indeed. "Am I?"

Hermione nodded. "Yes, Ginny. You are."

Ginny bit her lip and cast her eyes to the fireplace, cradling her chin in her hand as she considered what she now knew. "Do you love him, Hermione?" she asked finally.

Hermione blinked, not sure how to respond. "No. I mean, I don't think so. How would I -"

"You'd know," Ginny interrupted with certainty. "You'd know because you'd feel it. You'd feel it wherever you are, even if he's miles away. Even if he was a _world_ away. It's like, your heart won't stop racing but you're calm at the same time, just because he's with you. Because he's yours. It's because when you're with him, you're _you,_ and you never even realized that you weren't _you_ before him. Because you'd do anything for him, if he'd let you…" she trailed off, and then shifted her head so she could meet Hermione's eyes. "You'd know because your heart would tell you."

Without having to ask, Hermione knew where Ginny was drawing her speech. She was recalling her love for Harry, which the other girl rarely talked about but which was obviously a driving force in Ginny's being. It was hard to believe that she, Hermione, would ever feel so passionately about another person, for what Ginny was describing was very different from the love she felt for her friends or for her parents. For as much as Hermione knew about other things, it was abundantly clear that she didn't know a single thing about love.

"I'm just worried for you, Hermione," Ginny said honestly. "I can't help but feel like you've made an awful mistake."

"I disagree," Hermione said quietly.

"What about where he _comes_ from? What about who his parents are?" Ginny tried. "Lucius Malfoy was a Death Eater. _Draco_ Malfoy was a Death Eater. His father was the one who snuck Tom Riddle's diary to me in my first year, he was at the graveyard when _he_ returned - at the Department of Mysteries, Hermione!"

"Ginny, are you even listening to yourself? You're telling me that you're going to decide who Draco Malfoy is because of which parents he was born to?"

Ginny's mouth dropped open as the meaning behind Hermione's words hit her. "You think I'm being prejudiced."

"Aren't you?" Hermione prompted.

"It's not just his _parents,_ Hermione. Look at what he _did_ last year. That was Draco, not Lucius. He did that of his own accord."

"He did that to protect his family," Hermione defended. "Voldemort threatened his parents. He thought it was his only option."

"There are no causes worth killing for, Hermione!"

"I _know_ that, Ginny! But _Draco didn't kill anyone!"_ she said emphatically. "He made the right decision when it was _most_ important -"

"But not when he nearly killed Ron and Katie Bell by mistake!"

"What if it was _your_ parents, Ginny?" Hermione was almost pleading now, desperate to get the other girl to see things from her point of view. From Draco's point of view. "You don't really know what you would do in any situation until you're in it. And you _know_ what Voldemort's influence is like, Ginny."

Ginny looked away then, seeming to realize that Hermione was right, at least on some level. "How long has this been… er, going on?"

"Well, we've only had sex yesterday, and last night -"

"Not very covert, are you, Hermione?" she teased.

Hermione sighed. "You know I'm rubbish at lying."

When she finally turned back to Hermione, Ginny was grinning in the way only girls did when they were talking about boys. "So," she said slyly. "Was it good?"

"I suppose I don't have anything to compare it to," she answered, smiling. "But yes, it was."

"You and Malfoy," Ginny muttered. "Who would have known? How did that even _happen?_ "

Before Hermione had the chance to recount the story, the portrait opened and both girls snapped their heads up to see Draco appear in the archway, looking collected as he ever did in his high-end garb. Dressed like royalty even on a Saturday. His mercurial gaze flicked from Hermione to Ginny distrustfully.

"Weasley." He nodded.

But as Draco stepped into the common room, Ginny was overtaken with a fierce expression. She leaped up from the armchair and drew her wand, rearing back and firing a Bat-Bogey Hex with stunning accuracy.

"Ginny, _no!"_ Hermione shrieked, jumping to her feet.

Draco flailed, waving his arms frantically as the slimy green abominations swooped mercilessly at his head. "Bloody hell, Weasley!" he shouted, pointing his wand at the offending bats and trying to Immobilize them. But the bats were too quick for his aim.

"Ginny, call them off!" Hermione begged.

"He deserves it," Ginny said coldly, watching as one of the bats plunged down onto Draco's face, drenching him with snot. Normally, Ginny would have laughed at Draco's misfortune, but she didn't. She was staring ruthlessly at the blond-haired wizard as he thrashed about, blinded by Ginny's assault.

"Weasley!" Draco roared. "Call them off! _Please!"_

Ginny sliced her wand with an icy calculation, and the bats abruptly disappeared. Draco wiped the bogeys off his face and, with a dripping hand, fixed not Ginny but Hermione with an accusatory glare. "Hermione," he warned, the real communication between them tense and unspoken.

"I'm sorry," she said weakly, and Draco stomped up the stairs and disappeared behind his bedroom door.

Ginny turned to Hermione and shrugged. "Just once," she said, and then slipped her wand back into her pocket.

"Was that _really_ necessary? Hermione asked furiously.

"It was to me," the red-haired witch responded plainly.

Running water and the unmistakable slamming of drawers sounded from upstairs, and then a moment later, Draco emerged from his dormitory, dressed in his Quidditch gear and toting his broom over his shoulder. He swept down the stairs and out of the common room without sparing a look at either of the witches, not to return for several hours.

Ginny leveled Hermione with a stern sort of look. "You need to tell Ron," she said.

Hermione faltered. "I - I don't know if I'm ready to do that, Ginny. Draco and I haven't made any kind of commitments to each other. It seems pointless to drop that kind of thing on Ron when I'm not even sure -"

"So you think it's fine to let Ron go on thinking you two have a date at Hogsmeade on Halloween?"

"I…"

Ginny laughed shortly. "Malfoy must be rubbing off on you more than I thought, Hermione. You never would never have been so selfish before him."

"I'll let him know I don't want to go out with him, but I'm not - I can't tell him about Draco. Not yet."

"You will," Ginny replied doggedly.

"Just give me a bit more time!"

"Hermione, listen. I'm not going to tell you what you can and can't do with Malfoy because it's none of my business. But I won't let you treat my brother like he's a fool. If you feel that way about that obnoxious little prat, then fine. I can get used to it because I love you like you're my own sister. But you _are_ going to be fair to Ron."

Hermione felt the weight of her own guilt settle on her shoulders. Of course, Ginny was right. She was being horribly, _awfully_ selfish.

"I'm surprised at you, Hermione," Ginny said regretfully. "I'd've thought you'd have more respect for them - they _are_ your best friends, after all. Harry's like your family, and here you are _lying_ to him. Like he keeps secrets from you. And for what? Because you're _afraid_ of what they might think? For someone who says she isn't ashamed of her actions, you're sure acting like you are."

"You won't tell Harry, will you?" Hermione asked nervously.

"I won't have to." Ginny shook her head. "You're going to tell him yourself."

.

* * *

.

It was after six in the evening when Draco finally returned from Quidditch practice. He dragged himself through the archway, stopping when he saw Hermione at the study table, its surface entirely hidden by her many books and accompanying parchment. He leaned his broom against the wall, and for a moment, Hermione thought he was going to do that standoffish thing again, where he crossed his arms and kept himself at a distance from her before setting into a barrage of questions. But to her surprise, he pulled up the chair across from her and lowered himself into the seat.

"Saw your two pet morons," he said unceremoniously.

"And?" she asked anxiously, steeling herself for terrible news.

"They told me to check out the portrait of that nutter in the Divination corridor. Sir Callo-whatsit."

"Sir Cadogan," she corrected, smiling.

"Whatever," he dismissed. "He wasn't there. They said they'd sent him on a mission."

"Ron sent him on a _quest."_

"A _quest,"_ he allowed. "Right. Well, I figure he can't have found Ravenclaw yet, seeing as he isn't back yet."

"Maybe he has," she suggested. "Maybe he's running through the portraits trying to find one of us."

"I wouldn't put it past him, mental as he is," Draco nodded, laughing. Then he inclined his head toward the table, indicating her school work. "Studying, I see."

"As usual."

"What's the point?" he asked. "I doubt we're going to be here much longer. Right?"

Hermione bit down on her lip, gazing unseeingly at her Transfiguration textbook. "Maybe. But I'm sure the Diadem is here. We need to find it before we leave."

"How can you be so sure? You haven't a single bit of evidence to go on," he reminded her.

"Call it intuition." She shrugged.

Draco snorted. "Intuition. It's been lost for a thousand years. You've no reason to assume it would be here."

"I think that if Voldemort found it, he'd have returned it here. Don't you?"

" _I_ don't presume to know anything about how Voldemort's mind works."

"Well, it's because you aren't thinking, isn't it?" Hermione settled back into the chair and began gesturing with her hands. "You have Voldemort, who's _very_ invested in the symbolic meaning of things. Now, we know that he chooses specific places for his Horcruxes to be, and we can deduce _logically_ that one of them would be here."

"Why?" Draco questioned, rubbing a hand across his chin.

"Because Hogwarts was his first real home, of course," Hermione said with a roll of her eyes. "To an orphan like he was, that's extremely significant."

Draco nodded, seeming to understand. "And the diadem was meant to signify knowledge, and the castle is the first place he associated with that sort of thing."

"Right!" Hermione encouraged enthusiastically. "Even if it isn't the diadem - and I'm certain it is - _one_ of them will be here. When we do leave Hogwarts, we'll need to have already found that one. It could be too risky for us to return here, especially if we're trying to under extreme circumstances."

"Alright," Draco conceded, meeting her gaze. "We'll assume _for now_ that the diadem is here, and go off of that." Hermione smiled, but Draco very quickly added - "But if things escalate much more, I'm siding with Potter on this. You're leaving with us whether you like it or not."

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest and gave a small _hmph._ "Says you."

Draco held her stare and it was almost as if he was daring her to defy him - which Hermione didn't mind at all. She wasn't going to let him control her, even now. "So," he eventually began. "Are you going to tell me what all that nonsense was about earlier?"

Hermione set down her quill and took a deep breath. "Ginny knows."

"You told her?" he asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "I thought you wanted it to stay a secret."

"She, er… she's a bit more perceptive than Harry and Ron," she informed him. "She sat down next to me at lunch and… she smelled me. She smelled _you."_

Draco allowed that statement to sink in. "And what are you going to do about it?"

Hermione cast her eyes down the parchment in front of her. "Ginny says I need to tell Ron."

When she looked up at Draco, he was nodding slowly. "She's right." He smirked.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "She didn't say it for the same reasons _you've_ said it."

"I fail to see how that's relevant. As long as what needs to be said _gets said._ "

"She also said I need to tell Harry."

"And?" he prompted.

"I… I told her I didn't know if I was ready. I mean, you and I.. er, well it isn't as though we've come to any kind of agreement."

"Only because you don't know what you want," Draco pointed out, and the heat rose quickly to Hermione's face.

"Neither do _you."_

But Draco ignored this. "You smelled like me?" he asked, still grinning. "I suppose you need a shower, then."

"I've already taken one."

Draco pushed his chair back and circled around the table, taking hold of her hand and pulling her to her feet. "Take another."

Privately, Hermione cursed him. He'd known she wouldn't refuse. How could she, when he was looking at her like that? All darkened eyes and set expressions and regal good looks, as though he wanted nothing more to lose himself in her.

He led her up her set of stairs and Hermione drew her wand, rapping on the handle of her bedroom door. When it opened, Draco steered her into the bathroom and ran the tap before he started unbuckling his Quidditch gear. He stepped out of his robes and Hermione couldn't help but blush - she'd never had a chance to _observe_ his form. Not really. The only times she had ever seen him without his clothes, she hadn't been paying much attention to what he looked like.

Draco Malfoy was truly beautiful, his thin frame sinewy and athletic. A Seeker's build, designed for agility and speed rather than brutishness. Her gaze drifted over his chest and down to the flat expanse of muscle that was his abdomen - not ripped but toned. And to his arms - not hulky but fibrous. She felt plain beside him, ordinary. What right did he have to be so unnaturally handsome, when Hermione herself felt so drab and colorless? When her eyes finally found his, he was smiling down at her.

"I know I'm built like a God, Granger. But do try not to stare."

She gave a small smirk. "Why not?"

"Because you're wasting time," he said shortly, yanking her sweater over her head and expertly unclasping her bra. "We don't want your friends to come looking for us when you miss dinner."

"True," she agreed quietly, doing away with the rest of her clothes and climbing into the shower. She did this somewhat bashfully, knowing as she did that he had seen all of her but still feeling uncomfortable with it. When Draco followed, he took her hands within his own, almost as though he had sensed her insecurities, and kissed her knuckles lightly as he stepped under the hot jets of water before he wet his silvery hair.

"Hand me your soap," he said, indicating to the several bottles of hygiene products that were perched on the ledge beside her.

"You're going to smell like me, you know," she told him as he passed him the bottle.

"No one gets close enough to me to smell," he said, turning the soap so that he could read the label. "What is this, anyway?"

"It's a Muggle product."

He eyed her dubiously, then after a moment of hesitation, began to lather his body. "Should've taken my shower."

"You'll smell beautiful," she laughed.

"I _always_ smell beautiful, Granger… aren't you going to wash your hair?"

"I've already washed it today. If I shampoo it again it'll just be bushier than normal."

"Well, we don't want that, do we?" he asked rhetorically, and then leaned into her, planting his hand on the wall beside her head. "Are you going to tell them? Your friends?"

Hermione's eyes darted down to his lips. "What choice do I have?"

"You sound sure," he said, his voice suddenly gruff with desire.

"I'm… are _you_ sure?" she asked hesitantly.

"There's almost nothing that I'm sure of anymore, Granger," he said honestly. "But I'm sure that I'm not letting you go."

"Me? The bushy-haired know-it-all? A Muggle-born?"

"Don't instigate, Hermione," he said with an exaggerated eye-roll. "Don't forget you're the one who fell for an arrogant pureblood prat like me."

" _Fell?_ I wouldn't go as far as to say f-"

But Draco cut her off, his lips descending on hers as he pressed himself into her body. "Quiet, Granger," he murmured, his hands cupping her breasts and inciting aching throbs of longing that shot down to her core. Her arms slid over his chest, her breath short with anticipation. She gasped when Draco gripped the underside of her thighs and lifted her, pressing her back into shower wall and thrusting into her without preamble.

Hermione moaned when he filled her, the sensation of completeness overpowering her and her lust compounded by the heady feel of the water streaming over them.

"Too quick?" he asked, his voice thick with desire.

She shook her head. "God, no," she whispered, and her answer was permission enough for him. His fingers dug into the sensitive skin of her thighs as he fell into rhythm, groaning into her neck and then pulling her the fleshy part of her ear between his teeth.

Hermione was completely consumed, savoring every pang of delicious pleasure as he drove into her, drowning in the fullness she felt when she was inside her and wondering briefly how it had come to this.

"Fuck, Granger," he groaned next to her ear. Hermione tangled her hands into his slick hair and pulled him away from her neck so she could look him in the eyes.

Hermione bent her head down to paint circles on his neck with her tongue and was vaguely conscious of his steadily increasing speed.

"Draco," she murmured, but he ignored her. Tilting her pelvis upward, he thrust relentlessly at the spot he knew would bring her to her climax. She moaned softly as the quickening began to bloom beneath her abdomen, the impending tidal wave of pleasure that was sure to overcome her - and then Hermione's world shattered, reality coming undone as her orgasm seized her. She clutched Draco's shoulders, throwing her head back and moaning as she came, and then leaned into his neck with shaking legs and trembling hands.

Having satisfied her, Draco thrust a few more times before spending himself with an indulgent moan. Breathing heavily, he pushed his hips into hers to keep her upright, braced his hand against the tiled wall, and then kissed her deeply.

"We're late," she whimpered, still reeling from her climax.

"Damn," he swore, but there was not even a trace of remorse in his tone.

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 **A/n: I will _try_ to have an update out by tomorrow evening, but not making any promises. My laptop is being really strange and I can't copy and paste anything because the **track pad **won't obey me. I'm not sure how grammar editing will go from here on out. I also can't look back at any reviews because my computer is being shitty - so please, rest assured, even though I can't look back at any reviewers and give mentions, that I love all of you and I** appreciate **your input.**


	21. Occlumency

**Apologizing in advance for any overlooked errors. My laptop is still being dumb and feel free to point them out to me.**

 **A guest asked "Isn't this a repost?" Yes, it is a repost. There are eleven more chapters of reposting before there will be new material.**

 **This chapter is, again, fast on the heels of the last, so be sure you didn't miss the chapter named "Ginny." I've put in my two weeks at my second job and will be taking at least a two-week break before starting a new second job - I'll try during that time to have an update twice or three times a week. The faster we get through the 31 established chapters, the faster we can get to the new material. :)**

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Narcissa Malfoy tapped her wand against the bedroom door and felt the magic of the Imperturbable Charm as it gave way. The charm was the only thing that would keep her husband's anguished screams from waking Walburga Black's portrait, but it also served another purpose: it gave the married couple who resided beyond it some semblance of privacy in a house where no one wanted them.

The platter she held in one hand overbalanced as she pushed against the handle, the kettle and flatware it supported sliding precariously to one end before she righted it just in time to stop the dishes from tumbling to the floor.

 _Damn,_ Narcissa swore inwardly. As often as she had been bringing Lucius' meals to their bedroom lately, she didn't seem to be getting any better at it. She was simply no good at these things - there wasn't a moment in her entire life when she would have been required to carry her _own_ tray of food. She might've asked Kreacher to do it for her, who would have been only too happy to oblige a descendant of the House of Black who _wasn't_ blasted off the family tree, but she had decided it against it. The last thing she needed was to give the rest of the Order another reason to talk about what an insufferable snob she was.

In the darkened room, her husband's trembling form was merely an outline, concealed beneath a tatty, green duvet as he muttered the unintelligible ramblings of a man who was close to the edge. Narcissa placed the tray on the sideboard, recast the Imperturbable Charm, and then fixed Lucius' tea before she approached the bedside.

"Lucius, dear," she said lightly, resting a hand on his shoulder. Her husband flinched violently away from Narcissa's touch and she cringed, drawing in what she hoped was a courageous breath. "Only me, darling. I've brought your tea."

Lucius pushed the duvet away from his face and struggled into an upright position. "T-the potion, Narcissa?" he asked hopefully.

"Severus says it's better not to take it until your stomach's full," she told him apologetically.

"No. I c-can't eat." Lucius objected, but Narcissa was having none of it. She'd not stand idly by and watch her husband waste away into nothing.

"You _must,"_ she said emphatically, crossing the room and mercilessly throwing open the drapes. The afternoon sunlight streamed into the cramped room, illuminating the dusty corners and peeling wallpaper. One of the things she missed the most about her home was its tall windows, and even if the grimy panes of Grimmauld Place didn't cast light upon the most beautiful of settings, Narcissa could still appreciate what few blessings she was afforded.

Lucius recoiled, hissing in protest as he covered his eyes with both hands. "My _head,_ Narcissa, you shall make the migraines worse!"

Narcissa spared only a moment to observe Lucius bedraggled appearance: the uncharacteristic limpness of his hair, his unshaven face, and the hopeless expression that now slackened his features. It was the image of a once well-respected man who had fallen from grace, a faded imprint of his former self. Narcissa felt a heart-wrenching pang of longing but turned stiffly away from the sight. Lucius could not be coddled by his wife if he ever hoped to make anything that resembled a recovery.

"And you believe that refusing meals shall make them better? You can't eat in the dark, Lucius. Have your tea," she said harshly.

Narcissa took a few short steps to the sideboard, lifting the plate from the tray and revealing the Black Family Crest that was etched into tarnished silver. She sighed nostalgically - so long ago, these dishes had been elegant; now they were worn and neglected and dingy. Rather like the state of her life, actually.

Behind her, she could hear the tinkling of porcelain dishes as the cup and saucer collided with one another in Lucius' shaking hands. "Narcissa, if I could just…" Her husband trailed off in a quavering voice.

"Yes, dear?" she prompted, not turning away from her task. She was cutting Lucius' food for him, knowing that he would be unable to do so himself. It would be well worth the effort if she could get him to finish his lunch.

"I-f-ffff I c-could just…" he stammered. "If I could just _go to him..."_

Narcissa stiffened and fixed her husband with a glacial stare through the mirror. " _What?"_ she whispered sharply. She felt as though her heart had stopped beating altogether.

"If I could just return t-to him, the suffering… it would stop!"

She spun around to face him, her pale gaze narrowing angrily as she met his red-rimmed eyes. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy. Have you truly lost your _mind_?"

Lucius extended a hand toward her, palm turned upward in supplication. "He's _calling_ me, Narcissa. He's angry that I h-have not answered -"

" _He is punishing you!"_ she spat. "He will _kill_ you, Lucius. You know as well as I do that he will not forgive you!"

"My dear," he pled, swallowing back his pain so that he could steady his voice. "If we show him loyalty, he would forgive us. He would. I am sure of it."

Narcissa was more than simply astonished: she was _disgusted._

"You think," she began dangerously. "That after our son took the Mark and was given an _impossible_ mission, a task that he was sure to fail under penalty of his _death_ if he was not first killed during the attempt…" She took a step a menacing toward him, gripping the fork and knife with white-knuckled hands. "...after _my life_ was threatened as well as Draco's, after he _tortured_ our son in the presence of his own mother as vengeance for _your_ failure at the Department of Mysteries, you are _foolish_ enough to believe that the Dark Lord would show you _mercy?"_

"Narcissa," he begged pitifully. "Please, listen to _reason._ The Dark Lord rewards his most loyal followers - if he knew that I had returned to his side despite Draco's mistake, he would surely -"

" _YOU WOULD STAND AGAINST YOUR OWN SON!?"_ Narcissa shrieked, and Lucius shrank against the headboard, eyeing the cutlery in her hand fearfully. It was indeed rare for his poised and self-assured wife to become so openly vehement about anything, most especially against Lucius himself: she was forever gracious and obedient to him, and Lucius seemed to balk at the very sight of her. "You would seek your own relief rather than sacrifice yourself for your own flesh and blood? For _your own child?"_

"This is not where we belong!" he shouted.

Egged on by Narcissa's defiance, Lucius' voice had suddenly taken on its former strength, transforming into the deep baritone that she had fallen in love with so many years ago. He seemed to be pushing through his pain, and though his shoulders still faltered uncertainly, he pressed on. " _You_ would have us stay here, where blood traitors and _werewolves_ have overrun your family's home? You would choose to remain with the _Order of the Phoenix,_ rather than be among our own kind?"

" _You ungrateful - "_ she said incredulously. "They have welcomed us despite our former allegiances, they have sheltered us from harm and _protected our son,_ when they rightfully should have _killed us,_ yet you possess the _audacity_ to throw insults against them?

" _They are beneath us!"_

" _They_ are the reason you are _free!"_

"It was Draco's choice, Narcissa!" he said desperately, looking very deranged as he threw the duvet away from his body. He retook his feet and rose unsteadily to his full height, knees shaking visibly under his own weight. "I would not have turned my back on the Dark Lord!"

" _Draco made a sacrifice!"_ she screamed. "For us! So that the three of us might make it out of this war alive! _As a family._ And you would _gamble_ it to return to the Dark Lord's side like an errant dog?"

" _Draco_ ensured that we would not make it out of this war alive because he has chosen the _losing_ side!" Lucius replied scathingly. But upon seeing his wife's imminent explosion, his voice softened. "Narcissa… my love. Please, hear me. They cannot win. They cannot defy the Dark Lord. You know of his power. You have _seen,_ you have _witnessed -_ you cannot possibly believe that Harry Potter can prevail against him."

Narcissa felt as though her blood must be boiling, aware as she was of the heat flowing through her veins and the fury-induced adrenaline that was now causing her extremities to tremble with rage. She pulled in a steadying breath, inclined her chin, and willed herself to regain the collected demeanor that was fitting to her person. "I stand on whichever side Draco stands," she said evenly.

Lucius' shoulders fell and he seemed to sway a bit, as though his legs may give out at any moment. "We shall be _safe,_ Narcissa," he pled. "His most loyal servants -"

"You know _nothing_ of that word" Narcissa interrupted, and the flatware she had been holding clattered loudly to the unpolished floor. "Do not speak to me about loyalty while you stand there and conspire against your own son!"

Lucius' face twisted frighteningly, and for a few terrified seconds, Narcissa thought that she may have crossed so far over the line that he meant to strike her. Reflexively, she brandished her wand directly at his nose - but it soon became apparent that her fear had been the product of her own anxiety and sense of dread.

Of course, her husband had not meant to raise a hand to her. His expression had not even been born of anger at all; their argument had provided a momentary distraction, but Lucius' brief respite from the agony was over as quickly as it had begun.

"AAAAAAGGGHHHH!" he bellowed pathetically, clapping one hand over his left arm, where the Dark Mark had begun to burn with what must have been excruciating pain.

As he collapsed, Narcissa slowly lowered her wand and stowed it in her robes. She bent to his level and scooped her arm under his shoulders, ignoring his heartbreaking sobs so that she could support him back onto the mattress.

She produced Severus' Pain Relieving Potion from her robes, unstoppered the vial and held Lucius' chin steady so that she could pour the violet liquid down his throat. He sputtered, some of the fluid dribbling repulsively down the side of his face as he choked down the potion. The narcotic effect was instantaneous. His eyelids began to droop and he allowed his head to sink into the faded green bedclothes, his writhing and panting coming to a gradual stop. Narcissa let out a deep huff of air as she re-stoppered the bottle and slid it into her pocket.

"Be under no illusions, Lucius," she said coldly. Her husband's gray eyes flicked to meet hers, taking a few moments to register his wife's image before he faded out of consciousness. "If you return to the manor, the Dark Lord will kill you before you even have a chance to take a knee at his feet. And if you believe that I am going to _allow_ you to oppose the Order, you are mistaken. If you decide to fight against Draco, you will have more than one wizard's wrath to fear."

Lucius' lips began to shape a half-hearted reply, but he was gone before he could speak - lost to his nightmares for whatever amount of time the drug-induced euphoria would keep him. For a few long moments, all Narcissa could do was stare down at him, resenting her husband for giving her yet another reason to be afraid. After some deliberation, she opened the bedside table drawer and withdrew from it Lucius' wand, sliding it into her pocket next to her own; she knew better than anyone else that people did horrible things when they felt they were out of options.

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* * *

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"We're going to try something a bit different," said Granger, flipping her bushy hair over her shoulder as she shed her jumper. If Draco hadn't known better, he would have said she was trying to tempt him - but she was not.

She draped the pink material over one of the chairs and turned to him, her face set into an expression that was much more familiar to Draco these days. It was the one she wore when she was absolutely determined to achieve something, and he felt his lips quirk upward at her tenacity. Her obstinance had once been something that infuriated him, and though it still drove him to his wit's end on many occasions, Granger's unique and appealing personality was something he was finding it more and more difficult to resist.

His eyes flicked down to the dip of her waist and, unable to help himself, Draco grinned. "I thought we talked about this?" he said, tilting his head as his gaze traveled down to her hips. "That you ought to be properly dressed before we start these sessions?"

Granger turned up her nose. "It gets hot," she sniffed, then extracted her wand from the pocket of her Muggle jeans and began pointing it about the room. The furniture obliged her wordless demands, sweeping themselves against the outermost walls so that the witch and wizard were now standing in an open space. The narrow tower suddenly appeared much larger and far less claustrophobic than it had before.

"That it does," he quipped, watching her form as she rotated on the spot. Granger ignored his insinuation.

But it was all just as well, really. Patronus lessons would be a welcome distraction from the furiously churning cogs of his mind, which always kicked into motion as soon as he touched her. He needed something else to focus on, anything that would keep him from acknowledging his actual thoughts on the issue of their relationship: Draco was anxious and had been ever since Blaise, Tracey, and Daphne had confronted him about Granger - a situation made much worse by the fact that the Weasley girl had demanded that Granger confess to her friends what was really happening.

He did not know what to make of it. Even worse, Draco was painfully aware of how much of a hypocrite he really was when it came to her. He'd called her a mudblood behind her back, and all because he'd been too afraid to admit the truth. As many times as Draco told himself that he'd used the slur to protect Granger's own desire for secrecy, he knew that it was a fraudulent cover for his own embarrassment. Draco could lie to anyone, but there was no way he could lie to himself… and it was becoming impossible to lie to _her_ either, which made him more than a little insecure when it came to his own manipulative Slytherin ways. Granger would be outraged if she found out: it was even possible that she would refuse his advances altogether.

To his deep chagrin, the thought that she might close herself off to him was quite as terrifying as the imminent probability of their true relationship being revealed - which was, of course, contradictory to what Draco himself had required of her, and that deep-seated fear felt very traitorous indeed. There were many things about his personality, allegiances, and even his beliefs that had changed or _were_ changing, but was he truly willing for his prestige to be among them?

Admittedly, his family's reputation had begun to crumble more than a year ago and had since been dashed in the eyes of anyone whose loyalties lay with Voldemort. But if his relationship with Granger came to light, things would get much worse from there. Neither of the dunderheads she called friends were very good at keeping secrets. Once _they_ knew, how long would it be before Draco's parents learned about his indiscretions? Draco's housemates were one thing… but Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy were another.

Naturally, he told Granger none of this.

He was _sure_ he wanted her, and the sentiment was not limited to his own sexual desires - that much was obvious. What he didn't understand was _why._ Hermione Granger was undoubtedly an extraordinary witch, but Draco also knew that you couldn't just feel something about a person without having a firm grasp on the reasons behind it… ' _there's just something about her'_ seemed a pathetically weak argument.

He realized, then, that the girl in question had begun to circle slowly around him, tapping her wand against the palm of her left hand.

"You do know you're going to need your wand for this, don't you?" she said from somewhere behind him.

Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Really, Granger. Do you need a wand to do magic?" he replied sarcastically.

Granger's pacing had brought her back round into his line of vision. "You're the one who was unprepared, Malfoy."

Grumbling, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and produced it. "As I said, I might not have been so _distracted_ if you'd just -"

"Close your eyes," she said bossily.

Well. Maybe he didn't like her _that_ much.

Reluctantly, he let his eyelids fall shut - and it was only because the two of them were safe in their own common room that he did so. In his own mind, he remarked quietly that it was quite a telling gesture. Just a month ago, he'd never have let this woman out of his sights even for the space of a heartbeat, and nevermind actually _closing his eyes,_ while she was in the same room as him.

"Okay," she said softly. "I think I've figured out what your problem is."

"Been thinking that much about me?" He smirked.

"Hush," she said shortly. "Since you say it isn't your memories, although I'm fairly positive it _is_ -"

Draco cut her off. "It's not."

"Don't interrupt, Draco," she said airily. "I think that there may be a connection between your Occlumency skills and your inability to cast a Patronus. In order to occlude, you have to be able to shut out all of your emotions -"

"Which is counterintuitive to the happy memories you need to summon for a Patronus," Draco finished for her.

"Right," she conceded. "Sort of."

"That's a good point, Granger," he admitted readily. "But there's just one problem."

Though he could not see her, Draco could feel the heat of her eyes as she watched him expectantly. "Which is…?"

"I haven't been _using_ Occlumency."

"Are you sure about that?" she challenged. "Isn't it possible that you've been employing it subconsciously?"

Draco snorted. "No, Granger. It isn't. Occlumency is a conscious effort."

"Not entirely," she explained as she circled him. "Granted, I'm not very _good_ at Occlumency myself, but I've read all about it -"

"I'm _sure -"_

"- and I know that a particularly skilled Occlumens can block out his thoughts continuously."

Draco opened his eyes and saw that she had halted in front of him. They were separated by at least a yard, but even from here he could see her freckles. And her scars. And the flecks of gold in her brown eyes, the wayward strands of her disarrayed hair. "I'm not sure that you really understand, Granger," he said finally. "Occlumency is not an easy branch of magic, by any means. It's trying. Draining. I would know if I was expending that much of myself."

A small grin was tugging on her lips. "Have you ever actually read any material on it?"

Draco gave an exasperated roll of his neck; he thought he knew where this conversation was headed. "No. I didn't need to read about it. My aunt Bella taught me after I became a Death Eater and it didn't take me very long. I was -"

"A natural?" she supplied, eyebrows raised superiorly.

He regarded her smugly. "Right. That's what Bella said, at any rate."

"That's exactly my point," said Granger. "Most of the authors of the books I've been researching all agree that _natural_ Occlumenses can block their thoughts, memories, and feelings without giving it much thought at all."

Draco shook his head dismissively. "Occlumency is the art of defending your own mind against the attack of Legilimency. There just isn't a _point_ to occluding at all times, Hermione, unless I was in Voldemort's presence twenty-four hours out of the day -"

"But what if a person who was a natural Occlumens was in constant danger _at all times,_ Draco?" she argued logically. "What if he was young and perhaps not the _most_ experienced yet, and couldn't really tell the difference? And maybe he's always on guard, always standing behind a shield no matter where he goes or who he's with? I'm talking about someone who's innately defensive. Someone who can easily shift his emotions to a place where they can't be reached, because he's gone his _entire life_ doing it. Someone like you."

Draco narrowed his eyes at her thoughtfully, wholly unsettled by Granger's apt description of himself and unable to entirely discount her very pragmatic theory.

"You think I'm occluding unintentionally," he stated. "If that were true… I wouldn't even be aware of my own feelings. I wouldn't even know what I'm thinking. When you practice Occlumency, you're literally shutting things out so that they can't be accessed by anyone. That includes yourself. I wouldn't even _remember_ things."

"If your mind was occluding of its own accord, you wouldn't have any problem accessing your own thoughts and memories because as soon as you needed to recall them, they would present themselves to you without any issues," she said eagerly. "It would be _seamless_ , Draco, don't you see?"

Draco could tell by the light flushing in her cheeks that Granger was getting into the full swing of her theory. He needed to stop her before she gained too much momentum, lest she drag him into this speculation with her.

"You're getting ahead of yourself," he tried. "You haven't got much of a basis -"

She raised one regal finger at him.

"No, you haven't even given it enough thought to discredit it yet, Draco. Just listen," she said firmly.

He tried to protest, but she pressed on so quickly that Draco was unable to get a word in edgewise. "I'd wager that even if you were walking down the corridor - no, even if you were sitting in this very common room - completely unsuspecting and utterly unprepared for an attack - and someone came up behind you to read your mind, they wouldn't be able to see anything at all. And everything else is a side-effect of that."

Draco gave a frustrated sigh. This conversation was becoming rapidly uncomfortable. "So, what? Let's say, _purely_ for the sake of argument, I'm unintentionally occluding. Then what? Wouldn't it be rather a good thing? You would rather I put myself at even greater risk just so I can get in touch with my _feelings?"_

The bushy haired girl crossed her arms petulantly over her chest. "I think that Professor Snape was right to have us learn the Patronus Charm, given that it's already been made very apparent that the Dementors yield to Voldemort's control," she said coolly. "And I also think that it is very un-Malfoyish of you to possess an inherent power but not want to gain control over it."

Not for the first time during this particular exchange (or any other that involved this stubborn witch,) Draco rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. "Look, Granger. I'm telling you, you're wrong on this -"

But she cut across him swiftly. "Just try it, Draco!"

He threw his hands up in agitation.

"Try _what?_ Even if I _was_ occluding subconsciously or whatever it is you think is happening, how would I know? That's why they call it _'subconscious,'_ isn't it? What would I do to counteract something I have no control over?"

"You _can_ control it because you're already an accomplished Occlumens," she reminded him sternly. "Close your eyes, Draco."

He glared irately at her, suddenly wondering how he could even stand to be in the same room as this unbearably headstrong woman. If he was being honest with himself, however, he had to admit that Granger was more than likely on the verge of one of her more brilliant discoveries.

"So… what are you going to do, then?" he asked suspiciously. "Try to use Legilimency on me? I hate to break it to you, Granger, but that spell involves a lot more than just saying the words. Not even an insufferable know-it-all like yourself can just do it effortlessly."

Draco wasn't sure why he suddenly felt the urge to be so rude to her. Was it purely out of his aggravation, or did it have more to do with how close they were coming to having a full-on discussion about Draco's emotions? But even though the jab was meant to be more than a little insulting, Granger didn't look offended at all. Quite the opposite, in fact: she was laughing.

"Oh no, Draco." She smiled. "Even if I _was_ skilled enough to work past your defenses, I'd never try to see something you weren't open to sharing. That wouldn't be decent, would it? You're not going to be blocking out your emotions. You're going to _redirect_ them. Now close your eyes."

Draco took a short moment to consider her, realizing in that moment precisely _how_ different Hermione Granger was from Pansy. His ex-lover was nothing if not prying, always trying to become his confidant and make herself welcome to parts of him which she was not invited to see. It was this detail and so many others like it that made it difficult for Draco to keep himself at a mental distance from Granger.

Shooting her one last skeptical glance, he reluctantly did as she asked. The next time Granger spoke, it was from behind him, for she had resumed her pacing.

"Okay. Just focus on your breathing. Don't think about anything else," she said quietly.

He scoffed. " _Breathing,_ Granger, really?"

"Really," she answered. "You're hardly going to be able to focus on a happy memory if you're still all wound up. Now breathe. Slowly."

"This is stupid," he said, irritated.

"We'll see about that after you try to cast the charm, won't we?"

 _Fine._

Draco inhaled deeply and was about to expel the breath when Granger's voice shattered his concentration.

"Not with your chest, Draco," she said in her characteristically bombastic tone.

"Well, what the bloody hell _else_ am I mean to breathe with, Granger?" he burst out. _Merlin, but she is annoying…_

"Calm _down,"_ she said patiently. "Breathe with your stomach."

He pulled in another deep breath, this time dragging the air down toward his middle. By the time he had pushed it back out and cycled it through a few more times, he was shocked to find that the tight hold with which he'd been grasping his wand had loosened significantly. Riding on the unexpected waves of his relaxation, Draco rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck.

He could feel her in front of him now. Although his eyes were not open, he found that he suddenly had a heightened sense of awareness in more ways than one. He could sense the quiet pads of Granger's bare feet, could even hear the barely-there sounds of the breaths she took as she orbited around him; he found that his own thoughts were more manageable, a deeper and yet vastly more simple reflection of not only his present surroundings but his overall being; the mid-morning light and crisp October breeze that filtered through the open window seemed to be less of a nuisance and more of a comfort. Had Draco always been so tense?

"Good," she said approvingly, and Draco could hear the satisfaction in her tone. "Now… I don't want you to think of a specific memory yet. During what _period_ in your life were you the happiest?"

Draco didn't have to ponder the question. "When I was a kid," he said immediately.

"You don't have to answer out loud if you don't want to, if it's private," said Granger's disembodied voice. "Who were you with when you were the most content? When you had absolutely nothing to worry about?"

He answered out loud anyway. For some reason, he could not think why he should need to keep the memories from her.

"My friends. I was happiest with my friends."

"Not your parents?"

"No," he said, then added, "Well, sometimes, perhaps. But more so with my friends."

"Remember it," said Granger. Directly in front of him again. "Remember being with your friends and nothing else. Don't think about the present and don't think about the future."

Draco was confused. "I thought I wasn't supposed to be blocking anything out?"

"You're not blocking it out. All you'll end up doing is guarding your feelings again," she said with more confidence than Draco felt. "You're _directing_ it."

Draco tried his hardest to focus on memories of his childhood and pushed away thoughts of the inevitable future, trying to recall only the times when he and his friends had been innocent. Before Voldemort. Before any of them were Death Eaters.

 _He was watching the rain as it pelted against the french doors of the manor, grinning mischievously at his friends - exchanging conspiratorial looks, each of them knowing how furious their parents would be if they ruined their evening robes - and then their silent agreement, the glass doors flying forward when Draco straight-armed it, not looking over his shoulder to see whether his mum had discovered them as they charged forward, out into the rain, drenching their expensive dinner dress. Sliding through the mud the way only children knew how, crashing into the manicured flower beds of the garden, and laughing - uproarious laughing - and then, at last, when they were much too cold to carry on, rushing back into the manor and shivering. Draco, Pansy, and Theo collapsed together in front of the fireplace…_

 _He was with Pansy, hiding under her dining room table, covering his own mouth as Pansy tried to stifle her uncontrollable giggles - telling jokes at her governess' expense as the elderly witch scoured the house in search of them, calling their names frantically._

" _She's a right stupid old bat, isn't she?" Draco said, unkind even in those days._

 _"Shhhh!" Pansy hissed in response, her black hair still long and shining in her youth. "She'll hear you!"_

 _The governess's hideous fuschia heels clicked into the dining room and Draco and Pansy dissolved into a fit of laughter…..._

 _He was playing two-a-side Quidditch at Theo's estate in the summertime, finally eleven years old - flying circles around Theo, who had taken Pansy on his team. She lacked confidence on a broom, however, and much to Theo's consternation was fumbling with the Quaffle - Draco and Vincent were jeering at her misflight._

" _Shove off, Draco!" She thrust the Quaffle at Draco's head, and he swerved easily to avoid it._

" _You'll have to try harder than that, Pans!" he called, flying ever higher before turning cleanly to the left, arching down in her direction. "_ I'm _going to play for the House team!"_

" _Sure," Theo yelled from the hoops. "The_ Gryffindor _House team!"_

 _Pansy shrieked with laughter; Vincent guffawed vacuously. Draco seized Vince's Beater's Bat and shot toward Theo, laughing as the dark-haired wizard fled…_

It was Granger's voice that brought him back into the present, but he was undoubtedly far more cheerful than before.

"Now think only of your feelings during those times," she said.

From this, Draco understood which words were unspoken: push away the thoughts of who they all would become. Don't block them out, but _direct them._

He pictured his memories the way they would appear to him if he were using Legilimency: flashes and images open to him for viewing, some scattered and some in a row, and all he had to do was pick one and it would present itself.

When his grip on the moments of his childhood began slide, the pictures beginning to flicker and fail, he realized that Granger must have been right - he was occluding, and the result was that his feelings were fading with them.

But Granger had been right about something else, too: Draco was a skilled Occlumens, and he could redirect his thoughts just as soon as he could block them.

Deep breath.

He imagined his memories as a timeline, where Draco was centered in the years of his childhood. Rather than acknowledging or dismissing the future recollections, he simply repositioned them, placing them back where they belonged - still existing, still open, but elsewhere.

 _He was happy. Enjoying the blessed feeling of camaraderie, genuine and not short-lived. He was content._

 _He was with his friends, his best friends. His only friends. As close as children could be at that age._

"Raise your wand, Draco."

He did.

"Now think of a specific memory. The _strongest_ memory you have," she instructed. Draco wondered distantly whether this was going to work, whether he'd be able to successfully do this under the tutelage of a witch who couldn't even perform Occlumency herself. "Don't open your eyes until you've said the incantation."

 _He was at Grimmauld Place. Waiting. Sitting morosely in the basement kitchen, pretending to be very interested in the pattern of swirls on the wooden surface of the table. His eyes flicking periodically up to Mrs. Weasley's clock, as though the positions of the Weasley clan would somehow reassure him. Everyone was there - Potter, Granger, and Alastor Moody with his grossly swivelling eye; Draco's disavowed cousin with her stupidly pink hair, the werewolf, and that outrageously gorgeous Triwizard champion he remembered from his fourth year; so many bloody red-heads, clogging up the room, suffocating Draco's airspace. They were all looking at him as though he was less than the dirt beneath their shoes, all suspicious, all hateful._

 _All waiting._

 _After what seemed like days, but which Draco knew could not have reasonably been more than half an hour, the front door opened and Draco leaped to his feet, his heart racing wildly, breath bated as the basement door swung forward. First Albus Dumbledore - the man he had tried to kill that night and who had shown Draco kindness anyway - and then Kingsley Shacklebolt, broad-shouldered and stony-faced, leading his mother into the kitchen._

 _It seemed to Draco that his stomach would fall through his abdomen, so great was his relief - because_ there she was, _finally. Alive, breathing. Styled hair appropriately awry and her robes in disorder, but alive. Harried and confused, but_ alive.

 _Living, and unharmed._

 _It was all he could do not to burst into shameless tears as he tried valiantly to suppress his elation. Rather than suffer the embarrassment, he rushed over to her, taking hold of her shoulders, "Mum -"_

Deep breath.

" _Expecto Patronum!"_ he roared, and Draco's eyes flew open to see that the silvery light which had protruded from his wand was trying - _definitely_ trying - to form. Something a tad small, perhaps, but _definitely_ a something. He barely had time to register his sense of exhilaration before the would-be Patronus abandoned its attempts at taking shape, swirled down into a flat mist and, finding nothing to attack, fizzled away into nothingness.

Staring hollowly at the empty space which the mist had occupied, Draco was suddenly filled with intense disappointment. He felt as though all his feelings were magnified to the point of overflow and knew that it must have been the immediate result of gaining more control over his apparent Occlumency. He dropped his wand and paced backward before turning on his heel - all he could think was that he needed to get out of this common room, but when he wheeled around, Hermione had launched herself into his arms, very nearly knocking the wind out of him when she did.

"Draco!" she gasped excitedly. "I knew it! I knew you were occluding! Draco, you were so _close -"_

Draco turned his face away from hers as her arms looped around his neck. "But I didn't, Hermione," he said dully, not returning her embrace. "I couldn't."

In the recesses of his own mind, Draco knew he was being unfair to her. He knew she didn't deserve this cold refusal, but he could not help his acute sense of disillusionment, or the anger that was welling swiftly in his chest. He would not have been acting this way if it weren't for the rush of emotions that were beginning to overpower him, fervently trying to make a place for themselves after having been concealed for more than a year, unbeknownst to him.

"Draco," she said, placing her hands gently on either side of his face and directing his eyes to meet her own. She seemed to know instinctively what he was feeling, for her empathy was painfully evident in the golden hue of her gaze.

He needed to get out of here - go down to the lake, maybe, and be alone, where he could build his walls back up in peace, without all this damn distraction. He tried to pull away from her, but Granger would not allow it. This intuitive witch had led him to accomplish more than one thing today, and Draco could sense even before she said the words that she was not ready to relinquish her hold.

"Draco," she repeated, and when he finally mustered enough courage to look at her, she slid her hands down to his shoulders and gripped them firmly. She was still smiling, still overjoyed at what she clearly saw to be progress. Still happy. "Stop castigating yourself. You've nearly done it! You know what the problem is now, that you've been censoring your own emotions. All you need to do now is practice."

But Draco knew that this was not true.

"No, Hermione," he said flatly, giving an almost imperceptible shake of his head. "That wasn't the only problem."

Confusion flashed across Hermione's eyes and her face fell. He could practically hear her brain as it spun and whirred, grasping for an answer. "Then, what -"

"It's my memories," Draco revealed, and his gaze flicked away from hers, uncertain if he wanted to share this with her. It seemed such a deeply personal thought that he needed to keep it private, but something in her expression made him reconsider. She was just so accepting, so candid and forthright and trusting… it felt like a gross injustice not to trust her back.

Draco pursed his lips and then, deciding, said, "I know now. Now that I'm… aware. Of everything. I thought my memories weren't the problem because there was no way that I could have felt otherwise - because you were right, I was occluding. But I see now. They aren't enough, Granger. I used the _best memory I had."_

And then he saw exactly what he had expected of her, the conflicted apology that was ready on her lips and the softening of her beautiful features. The compassion.

And Draco hated it.

"Oh," she said simply, apparently at a loss for words. Before she could open her mouth to speak a second time, Draco wrenched away from her.

" _Stop it, Granger!"_ he yelled, unreasonably furious even though he knew intellectually that none of this was her fault. Not his bombardment of emotion, not his darkened past, and not his inability to conjure a Patronus. He should be thanking her, but all he could in that moment was shout. "Why the fuck are you pitying me?"

"I'm not, Draco!" she said, trying desperately to appeal to him even though he had given her his back. Her voice had gone high and frantic, but she was wise enough not to follow him. "You're basing your reaction on all the feelings you've been blocking for so long."

Draco stormed across the room and kicked savagely at the leg of the armchair, which did not move at all because it had been magicked against the bookshelf. Even this physical venting of his mounting frustration did nothing to appease him.

"I thought we agreed not to lie to each other?" he said icily, still refusing to look at her for fear that she would see straight through his violent outburst and into the vulnerability he was trying to disguise. "Why do you think you have the right to feel so _sorry_ for me, Granger? Is it because you think you're so much _better_ than me, with all your _decency_? With all your bloody heroism and your fucking _courage?_ Or do you pity me because I haven't got a sufficiently fucking _happy memory_ to speak of? You don't _know_ me, Granger. Right? You don't fucking know me!"

When Draco finally wheeled around to face her, he had expected her to be on the verge of an eruption of indignance, ready to tear into him for daring to speak to her the way he had done, to rebuke him for taking his anger out on her when she did nothing to earn it. Draco was therefore totally unprepared for what he actually _did_ see, which was Hermione Granger standing at the other end of the common room, watching him silently with tears shining in her lovely eyes.

Draco felt instantly guilty. He'd wanted a fight, not _this._

"Granger, I -"

"Why do you think that's how I look at you?" she interrupted. "How can you still think that, after everything? Don't you realize, Draco, that you're one of the strongest people I know? Just because you don't see yourself that way doesn't mean that I -"

"Granger," he said, then corrected himself. "Hermione, look, I'm sorry -"

"Let me finish, Draco," she said firmly, and it was obvious to him that she was choking back a sob. "Just because _you_ think you're weak doesn't mean that I feel the same way. I think you're much braver, much _better_ than you believe you are. We can't go on like this, with you trying to shut me out just because you're self-conscious about what you feel. You're so desperate to separate yourself from the old you, but anytime to get close to doing that, you seize up. I can't do this if you aren't going to _try."_

Draco watched as the tears, now too thick for her eyes to hold, began to slide down the graceful curve of her cheek.

His feet seemed to move of their own accord as he crossed the room and stopped directly in front of her. "Hermione." He swallowed down his pride. "I'm sorry. You're right about my reaction. I'm hardly being fair. I know that."

She was looking up at him skeptically, and the pout of her bottom lip was so tempting in that moment that Draco had to remind himself that problems like these couldn't be solved with kisses alone. Another tear fell.

"Please forgive me," he said calmly. "And please realize that I _am trying,_ but all of this is new. It's… it's very hard, okay? Things like this come easily to you, but not to me. I'll try harder if you can agree to be patient."

Hermione hesitated and cast her eyes down to the floor, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "Okay," she said quietly, and Draco felt the ever-tightening vise on his heart ease at the sound of her words.

He caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and tilted her face toward his, his eyes flicking quickly between each of her own. He wanted more than anything else to press his lips against hers but knew that there was a better way to comfort her, a better way to show her that he was serious. He brushed the tears away from her cheeks and then pulled her into a tight embrace.

Just as her arms circled his waist, the portrait door opened and then closed, the footsteps on the stairway heavy and hurried.

Hermione pushed him by the shoulders and Draco backed away from her, fixing her with an offended stare. But she returned it with a look that spoke very plainly to him: her friends needed to know, but not like this.

"Hermione!" Potter breathed as he barrelled through the archway with Weasley following quickly in his wake. "The portrait - _have you been crying_?"

Weasley's face pulled tight with anger, advancing on the pair of them with what he probably meant to be a very menacing stride. Draco plunged his hand into his trouser pocket and then realized that his wand was at least four feet away from him, still lying motionless where Draco had dropped it in his frustration.

"What have you done to her, Malfoy?" Weasley demanded.

Hermione intervened. "Nothing! I - I was just telling him about my parents," Hermione said quickly, wiping a hand across both of her eyes for punctuation. "Silly of me, I know. Getting all weepy for no reason. Everything's fine, really."

Potter and Weasley were observing them warily, apparently trying to decide whether everything really _was_ fine, or if it was just their best friend covering up for someone the way she usually did.

"You were saying, Potter?" Draco asked into the tension, and the messy-haired wizard seemed to determine that whatever he had come to say was far more important than Hermione sobbing about her parents.

"Sir Cadogan found the portrait."

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* * *

 **A/n: Mentions for this chapter go to Willow Jade and absolutefaith - and to the guest reviewer that leaves reviews so long and so thoughtful that the email truncates them due to length. You know who you are xD**


	22. Rowena Ravenclaw

The trophy room looked more like a vault than anything else, positively brimful of awards that gleamed and sparkled in the light of the morning sun as it shone through the cavernous room's tall windows. Hermione, Ron, and Draco followed Harry into the high-ceilinged chamber, each staring around at the rising levels of gold and silver that surrounded them. Hermione's eyes cast wildly about the room until she found what they were looking for: there, between two towering displays of trophies and plaques, was the portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw.

The Hogwarts founder was like a picture of royalty. Clad in elaborate robes of bronze and blue with her dark hair arranged elegantly over one shoulder, she looked more like a queen than she did a witch. She was sitting in a magnificent high-backed chair, and the only clue to her magic was the vinewood wand which she held in her serenely folded hands. There was an unmistakably intimidating air to the portrait's handsome features and, just as Hermione had suspected, the formidable witch did not seem the least bit surprised to see them.

The four students skidded to a halt in front of her, and Hermione's eyes flew instantly to the tiara that adorned Ravenclaw's head. The Lost Diadem was shockingly modest in comparison to the portrait's other lavish effects. It looked incongruously simple, wrought from silver with an arch of impeccably designed bird's wings, which fanned out on either side of a single, shining blue jewel.

"They arrive at last," the portrait said unceremoniously before any of them could open their mouths to speak. "I assume you are the ones who sent that impetuous knight to find me."

Ron looked sheepish. "He didn't, er, try to rescue you, did he?"

Ravenclaw fluttered her wrist dismissively and sneered. "If by rescue you mean manhandle, then yes. He is just as impulsive and chivalrous now as he was in life."

Draco arched an inquisitive eyebrow. "In life? You mean you knew him?"

"Knew him?" Ravenclaw echoed regally. "I taught him. He was a useless student, of course. One of Gryffindor's, always far more concerned with crusading than learning. It is no surprise to me that he came to so violent and end."

Harry, Ron, and Hermione all stiffened at the obvious slight against their house but none of them were stupid enough to contradict her. Draco stifled a laugh.

Apparently, the students' reactions had not gone unnoticed by Ravenclaw, for she swept her black eyes across them and gave a sly sort of grin. "May I chance a guess as to why you have come?"

Harry opened his mouth to respond. "We - OW, Malfoy, what the -"

Draco had stomped down hard on Harry's foot, effectively silencing whatever speech the scruffy-haired wizard was ready to give. Hermione heard him mutter something that sounded distinctly like _shut it, Potter._

"Please, Lady," Draco said in a louder voice, studiously ignoring Harry's furious glare.

Ravenclaw inclined her chin. "It would appear that at least _one_ of you knows proper etiquette," she said haughtily, giving Harry a wry look. "Am I correct to assume that you have come to inquire about my diadem?"

"We have," Draco agreed with a small nod.

The portrait responded with a rather unbecoming snort which did not seem to fit her stately demeanor at all.

"You are foolish to believe that you are the first students who have sought it," said Rowena superiorly. "None of you are even in the Ravenclaw house. You have no claim to my Diadem."

Ron's eyebrows were knit with confusion. "How d'you know we aren't in Ravenclaw?"

It was a valid question. None of them were wearing their school robes on a Sunday; there was nothing at all to distinguish them as members of their respective houses.

But Rowena laughed derisively. "You think I cannot tell my own students when I see them simply because I am a likeness? Gryffindor is such a presumptuous house. Perhaps if you placed your values in wisdom rather than nobility, I would be inclined to help you."

Harry made an indignant sort of noise and pointed sharply at Hermione. "But what about her? She's the top of the year - top of the whole school, probably, the brightest witch of her age, and _she's_ a Gryffindor."

Hermione cringed and began to protest her best friend's utter lack of tact, but Draco saved her the trouble.

"Potter," he interjected lowly. "There's a time and place for arguing, and this is neither."

Rowena's eyes then came to rest upon the blond-headed wizard.

"A Slytherin," she noted, smiling knowingly. "I would not expect to find you in such mixed company."

Draco's eyes tapered fractionally, the only indication that the portrait's comment had irked him. It was so subtle, in fact, that Hermione realized she might never have noticed it if she had not been spending so much time with him recently. "You are the company you keep," Draco countered.

"Perhaps you are not as contentious as the wizard who founded your house," Ravenclaw conceded. "Nevertheless, I am shocked to find you among Gryffindors. Are you saying that you do not share the enmity Salazar Slytherin so vehemently expressed?"

"I'm saying that these lot are my friends," Draco stated evasively.

Ron scoffed. Hermione shot him a scathing glare, which he refused to acknowledge.

Rowena was smirking wickedly. "Your cunning is lost on me, I'm afraid. You, too, have misplaced values."

"Lady Ravenclaw," Hermione cut in, speaking for the first time since they had arrived at the portrait. "Do you remember every student who has ever come looking for the Lost Diadem?"

"Naturally," Rowena responded stiffly.

"Did Tom Riddle ever approach you?" Harry asked, looking very interested in the change of direction. "It would have been about fifty years ago. He was a Slytherin. Tall, dark hair, handsome?"

Rowena rolled her eyes toward the ceiling and gave an exaggerated wave of her hand. "Yes, I remember him," she said disdainfully. "He seemed to believe he was so charming. I have no use for his sort, so I sent him away."

The four shared anxious glances with one another. They had been collectively apprehensive about the idea that the Diadem was a Horcrux - it had been lost for centuries, after all. But now, there could be no doubt.

"Please," Hermione implored gently. "We have to find the Diadem. It's - it's really, really important."

"And why should I divulge such precious information to students who enlisted the help of another portrait rather than search for me on their own?" said Rowena unkindly. "You are not worthy of the knowledge you seek."

"Well -" Hermione was groping for an adequate response. Surely there was a way to convince her that didn't involve revealing too much about their purpose. "One could argue that acquiring knowledge by any means is the mark of intelligence, even if it's unconventional."

Rowena gave Hermione an appraising look. "You, girl, are more a Slytherin than you think," she said shrewdly. "You may be clever, but you are manipulative in your own right."

Hermione gaped in astonishment. Never in her life had anyone made such an outrageous evaluation. But even as resentment boiled in the pit of her stomach, she felt a cool determination settle over her own features. This had nothing to do with Hermione's feelings, moral tendencies, or personality traits. It was about finding the Diadem, and their endgame was the only thing that really mattered.

"Wisdom does not belong to Ravenclaw alone," Hermione said calmly.

Harry, however, was not calm. In fact, he seemed to be nearing the end of his rope. "We're not looking for it so we can get better marks," he said, and Hermione could hear the growing impatience in his tone. "Look - Lady Ravenclaw, please, you have to understand -"

Rowena leaned forward in her chair, looking quite frightening in her anger. "You dare presume to tell _me_ what I must understand? Insolent boy!"

Harry appeared not to have heard her. "Do you know what's been happening out there? That people are disappearing, being murdered every day? Surely, this isn't your only portrait. You must have heard about Voldemort."

"Don't speak his name!" Rowena hissed.

"You-know-who, then," Harry amended.

Ravenclaw straightened out, regarding Harry through narrowed eyes. "What does my Diadem have to do with _him?"_

"It might help us defeat him," Harry responded flatly.

Ravenclaw gave a genuine laugh. "You? But you are children. You don't expect me to believe that _you_ are fighting a war."

The utter absurdity of it all had never seemed more glaring than in that moment. Because, of course, it was true. The four of them were so young. Harry himself was only seventeen, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It seemed so wildly unfair that he had been tasked with a feat which few were brave enough to even attempt, that the fate of Wizardkind rested entirely in his hands… and they were all just kids, really. Teenagers.

"It's everyone's battle," Draco said simply.

Harry, Ron, Draco, and Hermione stared resolutely back at Ravenclaw, facing her as one stubborn wall of solidarity. And after a few beats, the portrait acquiesced with a long-suffering sigh.

"Very well," she sniffed. "But do not expect to get answers freely."

Hermione held her breath, heart soaring with triumph - she could almost feel the relief as it came upon the others, knowing that they would be at least one small step closer to their goal.

Rowena cleared her throat and squared her shoulders imperiously. "If Theresa's daughter is my daughter's mother, what am I to Theresa?"

As though pulled by strings, all three of the boys' heads turned in unison to Hermione, watching her expectantly, waiting for her to do what she did best - and, for once, she did not even have the presence of mind to scorn them for their laziness. Of course, she should have expected - it was only natural that Rowena would give them some sort of puzzle - but a _riddle_. Well, a riddle was possible, wasn't it? It was only logic.

 _Logic,_ she could do.

"If Theresa's daughter... " Hermione trailed off, gazing unseeingly at the castle's stone floor, drawing a family tree on the blank canvas of her mind's eye. "Is my daughter's mother… My daughter's mother..."

"Oi!" Ron said suddenly. "The portrait -"

"Shhhh!" hushed Harry and Draco together.

After only a few moments of deliberation, Hermione finally said, "I'm her daughter."

But when she snapped her head up to give the answer, she was filled with disappointment, for she saw exactly what Ron had been trying to tell them:

The portrait was empty. Rowena Ravenclaw had gone.

.

* * *

.

"Pretentious old crone," Ron grumbled twenty minutes later.

The four of them were back in the Heads' common room, each of them equally as discouraged as the next. Harry was leaning forward in one of the armchairs, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together in front of him, his unkempt hair even messier for all the times he had run his fingers through it; Ron had looked surly as soon as they left the trophy room but had become even worse after Draco had pointedly taken a seat on the couch next to him - it was a calculated move that would force Hermione to sit alone rather than share the sofa with Ron, but she did not have the energy to admire Draco's dedication. She was far too restless for all that, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace with her arms crossed over her chest and contemplating the meager scrap of information they had learned.

"Maybe she is a bit pretentious," Hermione agreed. "But we could hardly have expected less from her. Hundreds of students have probably come to bother her about the Diadem."

"She didn't have to be so rude about it," Ron protested.

Draco snorted from the other end of the sofa. "Right, Weasley, because you're so well-mannered yourself."

"Better than you, I reckon," Ron shot back.

"Shut up, you two," Hermione said irritably. "Anyway, I can sort of see where she's coming from. If I were her, I wouldn't want just anyone to get a hold of it."

"You're defending her?" Ron asked incredulously. "After what she said about Gryffindors?"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Whatever her opinions are is off the point, Ronald."

"After what she said about _you?"_ he pressed on.

"Ahhh, yes," Draco said cheerfully. "Hermione Granger, the Slytherin. Has a rather nice ring to it, doesn't it?"

Hermione fixed him with a withering glare. "Shove it, Malfoy."

Draco's responding smirk was close to imperceptible and Hermione turned quickly away before he infected her with it.

Harry, who had been staring sightlessly into the crackling hearth, finally lifted his head. "But what does it _mean?"_

"I think she must be referring to her own daughter," Hermione reasoned as she turned on her heel, eyes cast down to the flagstone as she paced. "It's the only thing that makes sense. It was Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem, so it's customary that her daughter would inherit it."

"If only she'd stuck around," said Harry regretfully. "What d'you think she means by it, just running off like that?"

"It must be the only hint she felt we needed," Draco suggested, arm thrown over the back of the couch languorously, looking for all the world like he did not care either which way about the Horcrux.

But Hermione knew better - she knew it was as important to Draco as it was to the others. Why he was going to such lengths to hide it was the mystery.

"I agree." Hermione nodded. "She must have believed us about the war, otherwise she'd never have given us the riddle in the first place. She's set us on a trail. All we have to do now is follow it."

Harry looked skeptical. "But if Voldemort actually did get his hands on the diadem, who's to say her trail will even lead us in the right direction? I doubt he'd have just put it back where he found it, and anyway, she's only a portrait, after all. It isn't _really_ her."

Hermione bit thoughtfully down on her lip. "Perhaps not, but it's better than any other leads we've got, isn't it?"

Harry shrugged unhappily.

"But who's her daughter, anyway?" Ron asked. "I've never heard anything about another Ravenclaw."

" _Honestly,_ Ron," Hermione said exasperatedly. "Don't you pay any attention in History of Magic?"

Ron grinned lopsidedly. "Why should I? I can just copy your notes and be done with it."

"If you'd stay _awake,_ maybe you wouldn't have to rely on me."

"Come on, 'Mione. Even you have trouble focusing in that class," said Ron, putting on his best Professor Binns drone. _"'The Goblin Rebellion of 1776 was instrumental in establishing -'"_

"Case in point - there _were_ no Goblin Rebellions in 1776, Ronald."

Draco snickered, then said, "Why don't we just ask Professor Binns about Helena Ravenclaw?"

"Helena?" Harry repeated, looking to Hermione for confirmation. "That's Rowena's daughter's name?"

She nodded mutely.

"Probably not the best idea, is it?" Ron countered rationally. "We don't want it to get around what we're looking for."

"No one's going to think it odd that _Granger's_ looking for a legendary artifact that gives the wearer uncommon intelligence," Draco argued. "They'll probably wonder why it took her six whole years to figure out about it."

"No. I agree with Ron," Hermione said. "We shouldn't ask anyone about it, not until we're absolutely positive there's nothing written about her anywhere. And, _logically,_ there must be _something_ about her. Someone as important as Rowena Ravenclaw's daughter must be reasonably well-documented."

And with that, she opened her tiny beaded bag and plunged her entire arm into it, while Harry and Ron watched in disbelief. The only one who wasn't completely thrown off kilter by the display was Draco, who had already seen Hermione rummage around in the bag on several occasions.

"Er, Hermione -" Harry said apprehensively. "What _is_ that?"

"That's an Undetectable Extension Charm, that is," Ron answered readily. "Mum uses them on the house to -"

Ron stopped talking abruptly, flushing a brilliant shade of red as his eyes flicked briefly toward Draco, obviously realizing that the other wizard would undoubtedly make a jab at his family's lack of money. Mercifully, Draco passed up the opportunity.

"It's so I can carry everything we might need. You know, in case we have to leave suddenly," she explained absently, still digging around in the bag. "Oh, bugger it. Accio _Hogwarts, a History."_

The book flew obediently into her hands and Hermione plopped down into the remaining armchair.

"Everything?" Harry asked curiously. "What d'you mean, everything?"

Hermione spared Harry a cursory glance as she cracked open the book. "You didn't think we'd be leaving to hunt for Horcruxes unprepared, did you?"

"Well, I... I suppose I hadn't given it much thought."

"We'd be completely lost without you, 'Mione," Ron said affectionately, completely oblivious to Draco's mutinous glare.

"Someone's got to take care of you lot," she said mildly, scanning the pages for the word _Ravenclaw._ But after having been through the entire section pertaining to the four Founders, she snapped the book shut and sighed. "I'll have to go to the library this afternoon, see if there's anything to be dug up…"

"I still think it'd be more expedient to ask a ghost," Draco said grumpily.

"Just give me an opportunity to look for it first, and _then_ we'll ask Professor Binns," Hermione insisted. "It may be more expedient, but we'll need to be really careful about who, exactly, has any information about the things we're searching for. An enemy of ours is going to assume that any objective we have, no matter how menial, is to do with the war effort, and if Professor Binns gives knowledge to _us_ freely, we can hardly expect him to discriminate against someone like Theo."

Draco looked as though he was ready to object, but at that moment, there was a tapping on the window. A very common-looking owl was flapping on the other side of the glass, and hanging from one of its talons was a large, rectangular-shaped parcel wrapped in brown shipping paper.

"Oh!" Hermione said delightedly. "That'll be Rita Skeeter's new book."

She waved her wand and the window flew open at once, allowing the owl to glide over to the coffee table. The creature set the parcel down gently and then perched on top of it, clicking its beak expectantly.

Hermione opened her bag. "Accio Owl Treats."

"You keep _Owl Treats_ in that bag, Granger?"

Hermione shot Draco an icy glare. "You never know, do you? Obviously, they came in handy this time."

Draco gave a small _hmph_ as Hermione gave the owl its treat. Once it had flown away, she tore through the paper to reveal a very thick book.

" _The Life and Lies of Albus Dumbledore,"_ she muttered coldly, eyes dancing across the crimson titling. "Foul woman."

"Hermione, d'you think I could read it first?" Harry asked hopefully.

"I'll be quicker."

"Yea, but you'll be busy researching Helena Ravenclaw," he argued. "Let me have it in the meantime."

Harry's voice was even, but Hermione knew him well enough by now to recognize the pleading in his eyes. Immediately, her heart softened. Harry was close to Dumbledore - it was only natural that he wanted so desperately to read something (anything) that would make him feel closer to his fallen mentor.

"Of course, you can," she said, and she levitated the book into Harry's waiting hands.

Harry was staring down at the biography with what appeared to be very mixed emotions, as though he wasn't sure whether to be glad or resentful of this window into Dumbledore's life. Hermione watched him fondly, knowing that there was nothing she could say; she knew from her own experiences that there were no words to mitigate someone's grief.

"Right," Draco said briskly. "Well, in any case. I just wanted to remind you lot - in case you'd forgotten - there's still the issue of the Death Eater that's running uninhibited through the castle right now. We should probably figure out how to discover what he's up to."

The mention of Theo Nott and his obscure plans had Hermione leaping back out of the armchair to resume her pacing.

"True," she said anxiously. "There's got to be some way…"

"We haven't _forgotten,_ Malfoy," said Ron unpleasantly. "There just hasn't been any opportunity to tail him. He's on and off the map all the time, there's no way to keep up with the bastard. After he goes into the Room of Requirement, it's -" he made a gesture like smoke rising into the air, " - poof."

"Ron's right," said Hermione as she turned on her heel, striding in front of the fireplace thoughtfully. "There's no way to figure what he's doing in there. If we can't ask it for precisely the same thing, there's no point in following him. If we had an idea..."

Draco looked momentarily conflicted, as though he was not sure whether his own suggestion was going to be valid. "I could ask Snape. He might have some sort of information."

" _Professor_ Snape," Hermione corrected.

"Whatever," said Draco, clearly annoyed. "I can ask him tonight, I suppose. He's usually in his office after dinner."

Hermione nodded but did not stop her trek in front of the hearth. There was too much on her mind, too much to ponder for her to sit still. "I think that's a good idea."

"Unless, of course, Potter has another suggestion," he jabbed, looking meaningfully at the black-haired wizard who had already turned to the first page of Dumbledore's biography and was reading attentively. "He's pretty efficient at chasing Death Eaters around the castle."

Harry looked up, a mild hostility flashing in his eyes. "I think you're remembering wrong, Malfoy. I never figured out what it was you were up to until it was too late."

Hermione sighed. "If you three are done bickering like children -"

She turned to face them but was confronted with the startling realization that there was not one, but _two_ wizards watching the sway of her hips as she walked. _Blast,_ she thought despairingly. Her eyes darted quickly to Malfoy's, who gave a single, curt nod - _It's time._

"Ron. Would you take a walk with me?" Hermione asked abruptly.

He wasted no time leaping to his feet. "'Course," he said eagerly, and Hermione had to push down her own guilt as she spun around to head for the archway.

"Oi!" Harry said indignantly, gesturing furiously toward the clock above the fireplace. "We've got Quidditch practice in less than an hour, Ron!"

But Ron brushed him off. "I'll meet you on the pitch," he said, giving a half-wave before following Hermione down the stairs.

And all she could think was, this isn't going to end well.

.

* * *

.

It was with a sick feeling in her stomach that she lead Ron down the seventh-floor corridor and over to one of her favorite embrasures that lined the castle's walls. This particular ledge was the same one which Harry, Ron, and Hermione had retreated to in order to have countless private conversations or concoct half-baked plans against one enemy or another, or even just have a bit of peace where they could sit together in companionable silence, away from the furor of Gryffindor Tower. It was comforting in its own way, but not even the familiarity of this spot could quell the nervousness that was inspiring tremors in Hermione's hands.

But there was just no sidestepping the matter. She would have to tell Ron she wasn't interested in him and it would have to be today. It simply wasn't fair to him and, really, there was no telling what Ginny would do if Hermione didn't take the first initiative. She loved her fiery friend dearly, but she could also not imagine a worse person to break the news to Ron. No, it would have to come from Hermione herself. Problem was, Hermione was not sure exactly what she would say.

It seemed to her that there were no words that would spare Ron's feelings. Even if she decided to withhold from him the true nature of her relationship with Draco, Ron would probably descend immediately into one of his depressive fits. She knew him well enough to realize that he would promptly disguise his self-consciousness and disappointment with anger and indignance, then would inevitably do his level-best to ignore her from that point onward. It wouldn't be the first time Hermione was on the wrong end of Ron's stubborn temper.

"I dunno how you do it, Hermione," Ron said as they lowered themselves to the stone floor, dangling their legs over the edge as they usually did. "Living with that prat, I mean. How can you even bear to be in the same _room_ as him? Slippery git."

 _Damn._

"He's not so bad," she tried, giving a small shrug. "He's changed, you know. He doesn't… I mean, I think it's pretty obvious that he wants something different out of life."

Ron scoffed. "I know you always want to see the best in people, Hermione, but come on. He's still the same obnoxious git as he always was."

Hermione shook her head. "He's not. He _did_ try to save me, remember?"

"Yea, well, if it weren't for him, Parkinson never would've been able to get to you in the first place."

She expelled a long breath. This conversation was already heading south. Best not to drag it out, then.

"Ron, I -... I can't go to Hogsmeade with you."

She felt rather than saw Ron's head whip around to face her, and she hesitantly turned to meet his eyes. "'Mione, we always go to Hogsmeade together."

"You know what I mean, Ron," she said softly. "We can't go to together as a couple."

Ron's eyebrows furrowed in question. "Where's all this coming from? I thought... You _said,_ when I asked you, you said you'd like that. You said you'd go."

"I know what I said," she replied sadly. "But I've been thinking a lot about it, and - well, I've decided that I think you and I are better off as friends."

"'Mione…"

Hermione looked into Ron's crystal blue eyes, saw his hurt, saw the rejection, and she could swear she felt her own heart breaking at the sight. But it was better this way, she knew. Ron would be even more devastated the longer she tried to avoid this, and Hermione was not going to let her own selfishness be the reason he experienced more pain than he had to.

"Ron, I think you know as well as I do that we aren't exactly compatible," she said, struggling to keep her tone compassionate yet firm: there was no room to leave anything open for argument. "We have such a great friendship. You've always been there for me, and I'll always be there for you, but… just not in that way."

Ron's face was falling more and more with every word. He looked lost and lonely, like what little self-confidence he had mustered was being tossed right off the ledge of the embrasure. "There's someone else," he stated. "You're seeing someone else, Hermione. I know you are, or else you wouldn't be saying this."

"No, Ron!" she lied, feeling like the biggest coward she'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. _I can tell him the truth later,_ she reasoned.

"You must be," he persisted, having abandoned his sadness in favor of anger, which she saw growing quickly in his storming expression. "Who is it, Hermione?"

"Ron, listen to me," Hermione said, swallowing down the immediate need to be honest and locking it away somewhere it couldn't be reached. "I'm not seeing anyone. I just feel like we shouldn't ruin our friendship -"

Ron scrambled to his feet. "You lead me on!" he shouted.

"I didn't _lead you on,_ Ronald!" Hermione said as she pushed off the embrasure so that she could stand.

"You _did,_ Hermione!" he yelled, face turning an unflattering shade of red even as he backed away from her. "You said you wanted to go to Hogsmeade with me, you told me to kiss you in the courtyard! You - you're a _tease!"_

Hermione was struck silent by his accusation, mouth moving soundlessly as she tried to summon the proper words to counter him. "I'm not a _tease,_ Ron," she bit out. "I told you I wanted to wait, so I could think. Well, I did my thinking and I decided that I don't want to be with you. And that qualifies as being a _tease?"_

"Yea, I reckon it does!"

"Well, I've made my decision!" she screamed, entirely unable to tamp down her ire when he was throwing such brazen insults. "And I'll thank you not to treat me like some - like some _scarlet woman_ just because that decision doesn't fit _your_ needs!"

Ron scowled. "I've got to go to Quidditch practice," he said in a low voice, and as he turned away, added, "And don't even think about trying to talk to me!"

"Fine!"

And after Ron had rounded the corner and was gone, Hermione sagged against the wall, clutching her chest and trying unsuccessfully to fend off her tears.

What an awful bed she had made for herself.

.

* * *

.

Hermione had waited until she knew Harry would be gone from the Heads' common room before she headed back herself. It was probably not even very likely that Harry had stuck around after she and Ron left, but who knew, really? He might have used the armchair and the silence to get in some good reading before Quidditch practice. She didn't want to risk walking right into a barrage of questions about why her eyes were swollen and why her face was all red and blotchy - not when she knew, when she had _proven_ to herself, that she was not ready to be a decent human being about it all. Yes, it had been reasonable to say that _Ron_ wasn't ready to hear it, and maybe it had even been true - but the deeper reality was that Hermione wasn't ready to be honest with them.

And what did that say about her? About what she had gotten herself into? Where was all of her Gryffindor courage? She couldn't ignore the sinking feeling that Rowena Ravenclaw had been spot on about her, that Hermione was more a Slytherin but was just too afraid to admit it. She felt like a coward and a liar - it was a wholly unwelcome, unfamiliar sentiment.

At any rate, there was also another reason why she didn't want Harry to be lingering in the common room when she got there: the only person Hermione wanted to comfort her was Draco. It appeared that he hadn't moved from his spot on the sofa except to obtain a very large tome, which he was poring over when Hermione finally shuffled through the archway. But when Draco raised his head, it only took a second for him to quickly discard the book and rush over to her, smoothing his hands over her bushy curls and forcing her to look him in the eye - it was the last thing she wanted to do. She couldn't imagine sharing this amount of shame with anyone else. Not even him. But Draco, in all his steadfast determination, had not allowed her to hide from him.

He tilted her face upward. "Granger - Hermione," he said soothingly. "What happened?"

And she burst into tears, recounting the whole story, which somehow seemed absurdly short for how miserable it had made her.

"It doesn't matter," he told her after she'd finished.

"It does!" she said emphatically. "He matters to me, Draco! He's supposed to be my best friend, and - and I've gone and just _ruined_ it! I wish I'd never agreed to go to Hogsmeade with him. God, I was so _stupid._ I should have known - if I'd only _known_ then, this could have been different. And the worst part - the very _worst_ part - is that I wasn't even brave enough to tell him the whole truth!"

Draco ran his thumb along her cheek, brushing away her tears, and when Hermione's shoulders began to shake with renewed sobs, he wrapped his arms tightly around her and kissed the top of her forehead.

"I won't pretend that I understand, Hermione," he murmured into her hair. "Weasley's an arse, and I don't see what you and Potter see in him. But I know he'll come around, stupid tosser that he is. He never holds on to one feeling for too long."

Despite herself, Hermione laughed into the expensive fabric of his shirt. "You only say that because you've never been on the receiving end of his cold shoulder."

Draco pulled away from her and rolled his eyes. It was a surprisingly encouraging gesture. "I've been on the receiving end of much worse, actually. You seem to forget that we've had this ongoing rivalry for years… you know, duels, fighting in the corridor… ringing any bells?"

She smiled and gave a half-hearted shrug. "Well, maybe you're right. I think we got you more than you got us."

Draco turned his nose up. "I blame Crabbe and Goyle for that shortcoming," he said pompously and then crossed over to the sofa, snatching up the heavy tome he'd been reading and holding it up. "I found something that may interest you."

Hermione raised both eyebrows. "Oh, the suspense, Draco, please," she said caustically.

But he didn't seem to be offended at all by her sarcasm. "Laugh all you want, Granger." He grinned. "I found a very extensive section about each of the Hogwarts founders in this book. There's a lot more detail than in _Hogwarts, A History."_

Her eyes went wide as she read the faded, golden title: _Influential Witches and Wizards of the Tenth Century._ "Well, is there anything about Helena?"

"Dunno," he responded flippantly. "I was _just_ getting to the good part when you showed up all out of sorts. Of course, I had to stop so I could console you."

"Well, give it here, Draco!" Hermione said earnestly, but when she made a grab for the book, Draco yanked it out of her arm's reach.

"Not so fast," he taunted.

" _Excuse me, Malfoy,_ fate of the wizarding world?" She swiped at the book again, and again he pulled it away. "Draco Malfoy, you give me that book _this instant!"_

"I will," he said simply. "Once you've come upstairs with me."

Hermione's mouth fell open. "I'm not going to _sleep_ with you for a book, Draco!" she said irately. "I'm not a _prostitute."_

He splayed his hand across his own chest in mock outrage. "Hermione, you wound me."

She shook her head, confused. "Then, what -"

"You Gryffindors seem very forgetful today. I don't take advantage of girls when they're vulnerable, remember? But you _are_ going to come upstairs and relax with me. You know, unwind? Or do you even comprehend the meaning of that word?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Finding the Diadem is more important."

"Right, well, that didn't stop Potter and Weasley from running off to Quidditch practice, did it?"

"Give me that book, Malfoy!"

"I will when you've had some time for yourself."

.

* * *

.

Draco had been right, although she'd never have admitted that to his face. Ultimately, she wasn't sure how many hours had passed while they laid side by side, sometimes facing one another, sometimes not - sometimes laughing and other times bickering, but by the time the sun had gone down, Hermione was far less tense than she had been after rowing with Ron. It was strange, the way Draco seemed to know what she needed better than she did, and she was silently grateful for him, even if she couldn't understand how such an inconsiderate arsehole seemed to have so much insight into parts of her that she had always kept very private.

They hadn't managed to abstain, of course, and Hermione hadn't been fool enough to think that it wouldn't eventually come around to that, but that was okay because he had been surprisingly gentle - slow and tantalizing and selfless, always sure to take care of her before he sought his own. To be consumed by him was to let go of all her sorrow, even if it was only a temporary relief from the turmoil - and when he had finally found his release, Hermione's eyes were heavy with the kind of exhaustion that she had learned could _only_ come from pleasure.

"You're falling asleep," he warned from behind her. They were laying on their sides, Draco's arm curled protectively around her waist and his ankles intertwined with her own. She was trying very hard not to drift off.

"Mmm," she mumbled incoherently, knowing that it would be dinner soon, knowing that they would have to make an appearance in the Great Hall or else her friends would seek them out, but maybe she could just have a _little_ kip…

"Are you going to go unconscious every time I have sex with you?" he joked. "Because I'm starting to believe you only want me for one thing."

"Well," she said sleepily. "At least you're good for something."

"Careful, Granger," he muttered, weaving his hands into her hair. "I could go for another round, maybe not so softly this time."

"Don't tempt me," said Hermione seriously. "Or we'll miss dinner for sure."

He tugged on her curls. "You forgot about the book."

"I would never forget about a book, Malfoy," she said. "I'm going to read it after dinner when you're talking to Professor Snape."

Draco grunted. "Right. Forgot about him."

"Don't sound so eager, Draco," she laughed.

"It's a lot of pressure, being around him," he admitted. "A lot of unwanted pressure."

"How do you mean?"

"Well," he began hesitantly. "There's the fact that he's always trying to save my bloody life."

"What a horrible quality to have in a teacher."

"It is when he made the Unbreakable Vow to my mother."

Hermione flipped over so she could face him, all thoughts of sleep abruptly forgotten. "He _what?"_

Draco looked uncomfortable. "You didn't know? I expected you would, with Potter being as close to Dumbledore as he was."

"Well, I -" she stammered. "Harry overheard a conversation between you and Professor Snape last year, but I thought he was barking, honestly. He was so obsessed with catching you doing something wrong, I sort of just dismissed everything he said. Is it real? He actually made the Unbreakable Vow?"

"I might've guessed he'd manage to eavesdrop on something important," Draco grumbled, stretching his arms behind his head. "Meddlesome twat."

"Draco -"

"Yes, he made the Unbreakable Vow. My aunt Bella did the Bonding. He promised to watch over me, protect me from harm, all that rubbish. Complete the task if I failed. It was all a part of Dumbledore's grand scheme like everything else seems to be."

"But - how is he still alive?"

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. "He says it's because I forfeited the mission."

"Christ," Hermione swore.

"Yea, well. He keeps on telling me to leave the country."

Hermione mulled that over for a few minutes, then said, "He has to. He probably doesn't think you actually _will_ leave the country. But if he doesn't at least try to convince you, the spell would probably kill him."

"Maybe."

"... Are you going to leave the country?"

His mercurial eyes flew to hers, giving her a level stare. "Obviously not, Granger. I think I'm rather invested, don't you?"

Hermione didn't know what to say. Draco didn't seem to know either, so rather than speak, he leaned forward to kiss her lips chastely.

"Dinner time," he said, grinning.

Draco had no way of knowing how his statement had affected Hermione, because she hadn't told him how thankful she was to hear him say he'd be there, or how it had terrified her at the same time because of what could happen to him - to all of them, really. She wondered if he knew that he had somehow become her anchor.

.

* * *

 **A/N: So, if the conversation between Hermione and Ron seems anticlimactic, it's because I figured that Ron would be too angry to stick around very long. I know some of you expressed that you were waiting for the big reveal to Harry and Ron, but I have other plans for that scene.**

Acknowledgements **to** Fleiur **and Bhdeering, two old reviewers who have stuck through this very tedious repost and are reviewing again. Also, Frozen Darkness 88. Thanks for your continued support and I just want to state again that I have amazing readers and I give a special thank you to those who review.**


	23. Severus' Warning

**To Musings, a guest-flamer, who definitely didn't continue reading past the first chapter, but in case you did, just know that you are an absolute coward for leaving a flame without giving me the power to respond to ya bitch ass, jokes on you. I already knew that I'm fangirl garbage.**

 **"** **Ahahah. Fangirl garbage. Go back to your Felton posters, trash."**

 **.**

* * *

.

Severus scowled at the heap of yet unmarked scrolls that were piled onto his desk. He had only made it through the very first of his third-year students' essays and was already disgusted at the blatant incompetence they had shown - and this _particular_ author was one of the least dunderheaded pupils of the lot. He found himself sincerely hoping that none of them were unfortunate enough to be dragged into the Black Lake: their chances of survival were minimal if they could not even tell the difference between a Grindylow and a merperson. And while it was probably true that he ought to have refrained from assigning an essay before they had a chance to attend their practical lesson, Severus had no pity for children who were too lazy to open their textbooks.

Even if the Light won the war, the prospect of the future of the Wizarding World was a bleak one if the utter stupidity of his students was anything to go on, and Severus was privately mourning this fact as he scratched an appropriately scathing remark into the essay's margin and then followed it with a large 'P' next to the name. He had barely had time to read through the next scroll when he heard the door creak open.

 _Perfect,_ he thought morosely. Company was exactly what he needed right now.

He stilled his hand and eyed the archway that led to his adjoining defense classroom expectantly; surely enough, the very _last_ student Severus wished to see sauntered obnoxiously into his office. Well, perhaps not the _last_ student (he could certainly go the rest of his life without having to look at Hermione Granger ever again) but Draco Malfoy was hardly first on the list of people who were currently welcome in his presence.

"And I was so enjoying the solitude," said Severus by way of greeting, directing his attention back down to the parchment, where he promptly quilled his now much harsher opinion of the essay.

Draco was apparently unaffected by the veiled hostility. "Evening to you too, Professor," he responded genially.

 _Insufferable blighter._

Severus sneered as his student and charge took the liberty of lowering himself into the chair across from him. "I do not recall inviting you to sit," he said without looking up.

"Will you throw me out of your office, sir?" Draco asked sarcastically.

"If you wish to be thrown out the _window_ , Draco, then by all means, continue to give me cheek," Severus threatened acerbically. "Are you planning to tell me why you have interrupted my work, or are you content to engage in friendly banter?"

"I've got a few questions," Draco stated seriously, all foolishness suddenly lost.

Severus raised his eyes to meet Draco's level stare, and there could be no misinterpreting the flatness of his student's tone or the gravity of his expression. Abandoning his quill in favor of the wand that had been lying unused on his desk, Severus cast a _Muffliato_ over the room and settled into his chair, before nodding a silent permission for the younger wizard to speak.

Annoyingly, Draco mirrored Severus' posture, reclining into his own seat and crossing his ankle over the opposite knee, arms folded casually over his chest; an outsider looking in might have mistaken them for equals. How irritating.

"I need to know what Theo's been tasked with," he said plainly, and Severus felt his eyebrows knit toward one another.

"Why are you wasting my time with questions you already know the answer to?"

Draco shook his head in response. "Theo hasn't made a single attempt on my life. He hasn't given so much as a shred of evidence that he's interested in me at all."

"That is to be expected," Severus replied dismissively. "Given his nature, Theo would hardly elect to show all his cards until the opportune moment."

"He was in the Room of Requirement on the night Pansy took Granger. If he was a part of that mission, he'd have been there to help her."

Severus gave him a sharp look. "Nott has been in the Room of Requirement?"

"Every night for the last three weeks."

"And you didn't see fit to inform me?" Severus inquired angrily. "How long had you known before it occurred to your pathetically dimwitted mind that I could be of assistance, Draco?"

"I've been busy," the boy responded petulantly.

Severus could not suppress his own grimace. _Of course, you have,_ he thought, feeling suddenly nauseated. He pinched the bridge of his nose and heaved a weighted sigh. Teenagers. Leave it to them to make their hormones a priority over their own bleeding lives.

"If Theodore has a directive that does not involve you, I have not been made aware of it," Severus said without opening his eyes. He was trying feverishly to work out the implications within his own mind, for it was a notion that did not bode well. When Draco had been given his task, Severus had been among the first, and only, to know. He did not want to contemplate what his exclusion from the information meant regarding the Dark Lord's confidences - although it was equally likely that the only Death Eater who had been informed was Theodore himself.

There was a rustling of fabric as Draco shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "We've come to the conclusion that whatever Theo's getting up to in there isn't to do with me. If he ha -"

"I am quite capable of putting two and two together, Draco," Severus cut in impatiently. "There is no need to elaborate."

"Well, what's the solution then? Sir."

Severus expelled a pensive breath. "Of that, I am not so sure. I was under the distinct impression that your aunt Bella was the one to suggest that particular task, and there was no indication that there might be another directive. She was quite… enthusiastic about the prospect."

Draco pulled a face. "Was she?" He did not sound especially surprised. Severus snorted.

"It would have been an exceedingly calculated move for her part," he admitted. "Even if she were to set aside her vehemence on the subject of your family's treachery, the allure of putting me in such a difficult position would have been too much for Bella to resist."

Severus watched as the puzzle began to fit itself together in Draco's eyes. "Either you defied the Dark Lord by protecting me, or you dropped dead because of the Vow," the boy realized aloud.

"Quite within the realm of her usual savagery," Snape agreed. "She was furious when her plan failed to bring my loyalties into question."

"Bitch," said Draco bitterly, then after a few beats, asked, "Why did you let Pansy go?"

Severus leveled him a curious stare. "I would have thought that should be obvious, Draco."

"It isn't."

Severus fought very hard to suppress an eye-roll. "It is no longer of consequence -"

" _No longer of consequence?"_ Draco echoed, "No longer of consequence to whom? Certainly not _me,_ seeing as I'm the one she's been told to murder -"

"I understand that you are afraid, however -"

"I'm not _afraid_ of Pansy."

Severus crossed his arms over his chest. "Perhaps not for yourself," he said archly, carefully observing his charge's reaction, which was, to Draco's credit, minimal. Regardless of his current influences, the boy had evidently retained his flair for deception.

"Yeah, well," Draco grumbled. "I'm not the only one she targeted in the end, was I?"

 _Ah, there's the honesty._ Smirking somewhat triumphantly, Severus said, "But this is touching, Draco. Have you grown to care for the girl, after all?"*

" _No."_ Draco glared. "I just mean that it's hardly fair that Pansy was meant to kill me and she wound up attacking Granger instead."

"You cannot blame yourself for that. Miss Granger has been one of the Dark Lord's targets for years."

"Not a target of Pansy's," Draco argued. "And you just let her go. Don't you think it would have been, I don't know, more _prudent_ to - to -"

Severus' lip curled. "I owe you no explanations. You cannot even begin to understand the motives behind my actions."

"I've got a sodding right to know, Snape -"

" _Mind_ your language, Draco. I am still your professor and you will address me as such," he admonished sternly. "Impudent boy."

"Stop treating me like a child," said Draco crossly.

"If your better judgement was as developed as your sense of entitlement, perhaps I would," Severus said disdainfully. "As it is, I am loathe to supply you with any information beyond what is immediately necessary for your protection. You are arrogant. Reckless, with no regard for your own safety or that of others - your immaturity knows no bounds; you _are_ a child -"

"I'm fighting a war, Professor," Draco interrupted coolly. "I'm more than entitled to know."

Severus stared candidly at the boy, pursing his lips as he deliberated: on the one hand, Draco was young and stupid and careless, even if he was marginally more sensible than Potter and his merry band of feckless heroes; on the other hand, it was an issue that concerned Draco directly, and it was perhaps unfair for Severus to deny him the information.

At last, he exhaled another heavy sigh and said, "Ask me what you wish to know and I will provide the most honest answers I am able to give you," then warily added, "Within reason."

Draco scoffed, clearly affronted at the idea of not being given a full explanation. "Fine. Why didn't you stop Pansy from leaving?"

"I let Parkinson go because there were few other options available to me. If I had kept her, she would have been arrested by the Aurors when they arrived. Make no mistake, Draco: the Dark Lord has already infiltrated the Ministry and there is but little time before he overthrows it completely. When that happens, every single one of his servants shall be released from Azkaban, Parkinson among them. Vincent and Gregory would not have known that I was the one to apprehend her because they were incapacitated at the time. Pansy, however, would have been able to testify to the Dark Lord that it was I who stopped her returning to him, and I could not erase her memory because the Aurors would surely have investigated."

Draco looked confused. "But you didn't have to erase it, you might have simply altered it -"

"Altered it to whom, exactly? Professor McGonagall? Flitwick, or Slughorn? You would have another Hogwarts professor attract the Dark Lord's ire so that they shall be murdered when the Death Eaters take over the school?" he asked rhetorically. " _You_ of all people should be the first to realize who would have paid the price for Pansy's foolishness if she did not return."

"Her mother," concluded Draco reluctantly.

"Precisely." Severus nodded. "Her mother."

Draco wisely said nothing, so Severus went on.

"I had no way of knowing how serious the situation would be when I arrived; I could only be sure of what Longbottom told me. Furthermore, even if I had known beyond doubt that it had to do with Pansy, there was no way I could have stayed out of it because your life was in danger. Simply put, I was forced to make a hasty decision, and there was neither time nor opportunity to make a different one."

"But…" Draco said slowly. "Voldemort must have wanted to know why you stopped Pansy from taking Granger to him."

Severus leaned back in his chair, irritated by Draco's use of the Dark Lord's name but choosing to ignore it. "I explained that there was no way for me to stay out of it because another student had involved me directly. The Dark Lord was… rabid, as you might have guessed. However, even he understands that there are certain duties pertaining to my job that are unavoidable if I am to maintain my standing in the Order and my position as a teacher. Conversely, the Order was unable to fault me because my hand in the matter would have inevitably been made apparent."

"How could you have known that Voldemort wouldn't have killed Pansy on the spot for her failure?"

Severus snorted. "You are overestimating your importance to the Dark Lord, Draco. He would have killed you for failing to assassinate Albus Dumbledore, but where Parkinson is concerned, she is still considered valuable because of her age. She has potential to be useful where older Death Eaters do not. The Dark Lord would not have murdered her simply for failing to kill you."

"You've just contradicted yourself," Draco pointed out. "You've already said her mother would be killed for it."

"I never said that the Dark Lord would kill her, but regardless of that, Pansy's mother is not of any use to the Dark Lord. The girl might have survived, but it is likely that her mother would not have if that was the route the Dark Lord chose to take. By allowing Pansy to return, I gave him two outlets on which to focus his anger instead of Regina Parkinson."

Draco looked confused. "Two?"

"Pansy and I," Severus clarified. "The Dark Lord would not have murdered either of us. Yet."

"You were punished," Draco stated, having apparently come around to his senses.

"Of course, I was punished," Severus said through his teeth, suddenly and irrationally incensed. "Would you expect anything less from the Dark Lord after I robbed him of the chance to use Miss Granger as bait, or _worse?_ If there is a blameless life to be spared, I am not hesitant to suffer for it, Draco."

Draco gave Severus a long look and finally seemed to understand. "I didn't realize," he admitted quietly.

But Severus was not appeased. "You didn't realize," he repeated with a deep and condescending sneer. "You didn't realize that there is more to the art of subterfuge than playacting and Occlumency? You didn't _realize_ how very difficult it is to do what I do, that I have to make choices about whose life is more important? That I have to _base_ those choices on whether my actions will arouse the Dark Lord's suspicions, and _that_ is the deciding factor for who lives and who dies?"

There was no way for the boy to know that Severus would have done anything to assuage his own guilt, but for perhaps the first time in living memory, Draco Malfoy looked properly chastised. He directed his gaze to the pile of scrolls on the desk in front of him and would not raise his eyes, looking appropriately foolish. A long moment passed in silence, during which Severus stared unrelentingly at Draco, who appeared to be so unsettled that he was fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt; it was thoroughly uncharacteristic of the boy, for whom nervous ticks were essentially non-existent - surely a reprimand would not have been enough to make him twitch like a first-year.

"Something else?" Severus prompted curiously.

Draco seemed hesitant, angling his head to the side as though debating whether or not to speak. "I've been having trouble casting a Patronus," he finally said.

"Many of your classmates proved incapable of conjuring a Corporeal Patronus within the amount of time they were given to accomplish it."

"Tracey and Daphne managed it," Draco reminded him.

"Miss Davis and Miss Greengrass have both lived exceptionally charmed lives," Severus countered. "You and Mr. Zabini are considerably different: you have both been sheltered and were raised in affluence, but no one could rightfully say that either of you had an easy childhood. It is not uncommon for wizards such as yourselves to experience difficulty with a Patronus charm, especially at so young an age."

Draco scratched the back of his neck self-consciously. "Right, well - Granger thinks it's more to do with Occlumency than memories."

Severus snorted disparagingly. "Miss Granger knows nothing of Occlumency. That girl is so pathetically open that I could read her mind from the next room if I so desired. In any case, those two branches of magic have very little in common."

"About that…"

And Draco launched into the tale, recounting in detail more than a fortnight's worth of Patronus lessons with Miss Granger, while Severus listened attentively in spite of himself. If he was being completely honest, it was actually a rather interesting topic of discussion, a theory Severus had never heard before.

"When did Miss Granger make the suggestion that Occlumency may be affecting you?" he asked when Draco seemed to have nothing more to relate.

"Today," he answered. "This morning, specifically."

"And you have not attempted it since then?"

Draco's silence was confirmation enough. " _Busy,_ are we?" Severus jabbed.

"I was, actually," the boy responded succinctly.

 _Please._ "What else could you possibly have to do on the weekend?"

"I do still attend classes, professor," Draco lied with his usual practiced ease. "There's plenty of schoolwork to be done."

Severus wondered privately whether it would be worth to call Draco on his deception. Now was perhaps not the ideal time for Severus to reveal what he knew, although certainly it would be amusing… and quite apart from that, there were more dire aspects of Draco's new relationship that needed immediate addressing.

"I would suggest, Draco, that you sort your priorities," Severus recommended instead. "The Patronus charm is more useful than you may realize. Already, the Dark Lord is in control of more Dementors than I even want to think about, and it shall become exponentially worse when he overthrows the Ministry. The time is coming soon when you may need it to save your own life."

Draco looked every bit the resentful teenager. "You weren't saying that when you moved on to the next lesson, even though most of us hadn't done it yet!"

"If I chose to wait until every student was able to conjure a Corporeal Patronus, there would not be another lesson for the rest of term," Severus told him. "Additionally, it is of the utmost importance that you get your Occlumency under control, for that power has the potential to be very dangerous if you are unable to rein it in."

"I'm not sure I understand, sir," Draco said thoughtfully. "Granger said she read about it -" eye roll " - in some book or another, that natural Occlumenses can block their minds continuously, but I knew that before. I don't see how that exactly adds up to my not even _knowing_ I was occluding."

Severus smirked, completely unable to help his own sick satisfaction when it came to his hatred for Bellatrix Lestrange. "You were not trained properly," he said slyly. "Unsurprising, considering which of your deranged family members taught you. Perhaps if you had accepted my help, I might have been able to assist you."

Draco glared openly back at him.

"I think I've got a handle on that, thanks," he snapped. "I told you, I was able to direct my feelings perfectly well after I realized what I'd been doing all along… but the thing is, I think Granger might have been right to begin with. I'm not certain that my memories are enough."

Severus arched a brow. "If you do not feel that the memory of your mother is sufficient, why not try the memories of your childhood?"

The younger wizard shrugged. "The memories of my childhood are not as strong."

"They are joyful," Severus pointed out.

"The happiness doesn't compare," Draco insisted flatly.

Severus pondered this for a moment, then said, "It is true that a memory of that nature may suffice as long as it carries significant weight. However, Patronuses are positive energy in its most basic and powerful form. It is possible that your own positive energy has not yet overcome the negativity you still retain."

Draco bristled. "You mean evil."

"I mean negativity," Severus corrected calmly. "If you need help, Draco -"

"I don't," he interrupted sourly. "I need to know what Theo's doing in the Room of Requirement."

Seeing that this conversation was coming to a blessed close, Severus straightened out in his chair and pulled another scroll from the pile. "The possibilities are astronomical. If Theodore chooses not to express it, there may be no way for you to uncover it at all."

"It must be something to do with the castle. Getting Death Eaters into it, maybe," Draco offered.

Severus dipped his quill into the inkpot and scratched through a particularly idiotic sentence. "I sincerely doubt it. The entire staff combed through the Room of Hidden Things and found nothing similar to a Vanishing Cabinet."

"But you can _ask_ him, professor," Draco pressed.

Severus sighed as he scribbled a 'P' across the top of the essay. "It is not as simple as you believe it is, though I would hardly expect you to understand."

"Care to spell it out for me, then?" he sneered, and then at Severus' pointed look, added, "Sir."

"If Nott was to tell me what he was tasked with, I would have no choice but to offer my assistance," Severus explained patiently. "As you have seen with the situation regarding Pansy, my position is a delicate one, and if I do not know for a fact what his directives are, then I am not obligated to help him... However, I will try to glean what information I am able to."

Severus unrolled another essay and scowled at the student's name - another imbecile. "In the meantime, you may go. I have grown tired of providing you with answers that should have been obvious from the start."

"That's it?" Draco asked skeptically. "No lecture on how stupid and careless I am? No demands that I leave the country?"

"You are stupid and careless," Severus agreed. "And I believe that particular argument would be futile."

"Why the sudden change of heart?" Draco inquired, and Severus could almost _hear_ his grin.

"Because of your relationship with Miss Granger, of course," Severus revealed casually, employing the same tone he might have used when discussing the weather.

Silence. Then, " _What?_ We're not - _I'm_ not -"

 _Ah. Not so amusing now._

"You may as well drop the charade, Draco. Not everyone is so blind as to have overlooked your… activities," Severus emphasized while marking the current essay with yet another 'P'.

"I don't see that it's any of your business, professor," Draco said coldly.

He shifted the scroll to the 'graded' pile. "Unfortunately for you _and_ Miss Granger, you forfeited your right to privacy when you failed to change the password to your common room. Another careless decision."

Severus looked up just in time to watch what little color Draco possessed drain from his face entirely.

"Merlin," he choked.

"Indeed."

"You can't tell anyone, professor, she doesn't want -"

"Are you truly so self-centered as to believe that I would waste my time meddling in the affairs of teenagers? My students, no less?" Severus snorted. "I only wish to convey my thoughts on how tragically _reckless_ you are for putting that girl in such a dangerous position. Or are you under the impression that your parents will be accepting of her blood-status?"

Draco's face twisted into an outraged grimace. "She's not in _danger,"_ he argued furiously. "My parents wouldn't go so far as to _hurt_ her. It isn't that serious."

"Isn't it?" Severus pressed. "I have known your parents for more than twenty-five years, Draco. I have seen firsthand what atrocities your father is capable of."

"I wouldn't put much stock in what my father's capable just now," Draco said broodingly.

"You are too quick to underestimate him," Severus argued. "He is the epitome of hatred against Muggleborns, and from what I've seen of your _own_ beliefs, _you_ are hardly better than he is!"

A muscle jumped in Draco's cheek. "I don't think that way about her."

Severus' eyebrows shot high on his head. "Your opinions have changed for _her,_ but not for other witches and wizards of similar birth?" he challenged, laying the trap for what answer he was quite positive Draco would provide.

"I…" he began indecisively, and Severus knew even before Draco said the words that he had been spot on: Draco hadn't reformed his opinions, he'd simply made an exception to suit his own needs.

"I don't think that way about Granger," the boy finally answered.

And Severus' patience snapped. He set his quill down, retook his feet, and leaned over his desk in the most intimidating fashion he could effect - which, he knew, was quite intimidating indeed.

"You do her a disservice!" Severus barked. "It is the worst kind of bigotry to say that one person is exempt from your prejudice simply because you've gone soft on her!"

Draco was understandably taken aback by his teacher's sudden vehemence - for all Draco knew, Severus was as much the blood-supremacist as the rest of his Death Eater brethren; certainly, Draco had never been directly reprimanded for his use of the word _Mudblood_ in the past, but that was only because Severus had never actually _heard_ him say it and therefore could not hang the boy out to dry as he had very well deserved.

"Fine," Draco confessed shortly. "Maybe I don't know for sure, yet."

"Which only serves to prove my point!" Severus accused irately. "You haven't spared so much as a cursory thought for your own future, and nevermind Miss Granger's - and be under no illusions, _she_ is the one who shall bear the weight of the consequences. You have already made your negligence painfully clear. Did you truly believe you two were being so covert? Haphazard attempts at concealment, falling asleep together in your common room which several students and professors are able to access at any - "

"If you're telling me to quit seeing her, it isn't going to happen," Draco interjected firmly, rising from his chair.

Severus stopped his tirade and narrowed his eyes at the boy, who at his full height was barely level with Severus' much taller form as the older wizard leaned toward him over the desk. Apparently, the child whom Severus had known since the day of his birth could no longer be cowed. _Well,_ he thought. _That's a surprise._ Of all the things he had expected Draco might say, _that_ hadn't been among them.

Straightening his spine, Severus stared down at the boy over the curve of his hooked nose.

"Then I _suggest_ , for both of your sakes, that you find your ground and hold it," he said evenly. "It is only a matter of time before it all comes to light, and when it does, you had better be prepared. There won't _be_ any gray area for you to hide in. Now, go away."

Draco did not hesitate. Looking contemptuous, the boy hurried through the office door and out of the classroom, leaving Severus to entertain his own unwelcome thoughts about Albus Dumbledore, Unbreakable Vows, and Lucius Malfoy.

.

* * *

.

Draco didn't know what to feel as he made his way back up to the common room. He was angry for many reasons (one of them being that the stairways were being especially contrary this evening) but was also confused and a more than a little afraid.

He admitted that he had been regrettably short-sighted when it came to the issue of Pansy. He'd been unfairly resentful of Snape for letting the girl avoid Azkaban when she was, very clearly, a threat. He had wanted to see her punished for what she'd done to Granger, and for some reason, being back with Voldemort did not seem a harsh enough consequence. But what Snape had said bore the unmistakable ring of truth: his position truly was as delicate as rice paper, and Draco was ashamed that he hadn't given more thought to what it must be like to be suspended in the middle of two opposing sides of a war, to know that people's lives were being weighed in the balance and even one misstep could tip the scales. It seemed so heavy a burden. How many deaths had Snape known about but been unable to prevent?

And then there was the issue of Draco's father, who Snape seemed to believe beyond a shadow of a doubt was a real and present threat to Granger.

From the moment Draco decided that Hermione was more than a quick lay, he had known that he was risking many things, not the least of which being his inheritance and prestige… and not to mention the fact that he was _trusting_ her in a way that left Draco extremely and unprecedentedly vulnerable. Yes, Draco had considered all these things, and hell if they didn't accost him regularly with second thoughts - still, he'd never have believed it of his own father to _hurt_ Granger just for daring to feel something for the Malfoy Heir… but, nevermind - he would have to push that idea away for now. It was something that needed to be discussed with Granger, not within the swirling recesses of his own mind.

The first, foremost, and most immediate concern was the fact that Snape knew. Now _there_ was a legitimately disturbing thought.

 _Fuck._ How long had it been since he and Granger had got going with this? A month since he'd kissed her, a few weeks since he'd grown to actually care for her… and, Merlin, barely three sodding _days_ since he'd slept with her. Draco had not anticipated for anyone to figure it all out so bloody quick, but the she-Weasley and _Professor Snape_ had already done, and that left Granger and himself at a distinct loss as to how the entire ordeal would eventually come out. As a Slytherin, Draco understood that the way things were revealed had a huge impact on how they were received… and both of them were now at a disadvantage because they hadn't been careful enough - which, if he was honest, was almost a disgrace to the name of Slytherin (and Malfoy.) He was no longer in control of the situation, and that was as frightening as it was frustrating.

Merlin, he'd known that it all had to come out sometime, but really, there were _limits._

Thankfully, he'd made it to the common room without being assaulted by Peeves, who was usually very active at this time of night but who must have been reigning mischief elsewhere, and when Draco finally passed through the archway, he discovered that Granger was already asleep. She had passed out reading (typically) and was tucked into the corner of the sofa, looking incongruously comfortable for someone who was snoozing in an upright position.

Truly, Draco did not want to wake her when she looked so serene, and he was also well aware that this was the very last thing she needed right now, what with her row with Weasley, but there was really no use in agonizing over it. Draco couldn't very well keep her in the dark and allow her to attend her lessons tomorrow without knowing, even if he was less-than-eager to face her inevitably volatile reaction to the whole thing.

Sighing, he gently pulled _Influential Witches and Wizards of the Tenth Century_ out of her hands and set it on the coffee table, before perching on the edge of the couch next to her.

She really was beautiful, he thought as he gazed down at her. She was exceptional in so many different and unexpected ways, but it was still an unsettling thought to know that he was slowly becoming more and more attached to this girl. He paused briefly, wondering whether he was really ready for this. Not for the relationship, necessarily, but for all that it entailed - because having Snape confront him about her blood-status had been very discomfiting indeed, and that was without the fact that Draco was sure he had never seen his professor so indignant about _anything_ before. It had been a startlingly valid point.

But he would omit that part of the conversation from Granger, if only because he was not confident enough about it to be honest yet, and anyway, there were more pressing matters at hand.

Draco brushed a curl away from her face with enough pressure to pull her out of her sleep. "Granger," he said softly, and her eyelids fluttered open in a most endearing fashion before she locked her gaze onto him and seemed to realize where she was.

"Malfoy," she said in a voice that was still scratchy from disuse.

"You fell asleep reading," he informed her with a sly grin, gesturing to the book that was still lying open on the coffee table. "You are so very predictable at times."

"Reading…" Granger repeated sleepily. She turned her head slowly to the side, and her eyes went suddenly round when they landed on the book; sitting up straight, she said with urgency, "Oh, my God, Draco the book, I have to show you -"

But as she twisted her body to the side in order to reach toward the coffee table, Draco pushed gently on her shoulder to keep her in place.

"In a minute, Hermione," he said with both authority and apprehension. Although he was quite as keen to know whatever it was she had found, this was a conversation that had to be had. Now.

Her eyes darted quickly between his own and she seemed to immediately comprehend that he came bearing horrible news.

"What did he say?" she asked anxiously.

Probably, she was thinking that he had learned what Theo's task was and it had turned out to be a truly awful one, or that an Order member had been murdered, or something equally as alarming; Draco could read as much just by the fear that was evident in her eyes. This, she would not have expected.

"Snape knows," he said inelegantly.

" _You told him?"_ she demanded, gripping his arm with a strength he didn't know she possessed. Lucky he was wearing long sleeves, really, because her nails would surely have pierced his skin.

Draco took in a breath. "Not… exactly."

She angled her head warily in that top-of-form-Granger way, wearing the familiar expression that said 'Draco Malfoy, I'll have your head on a blazing pike' without needing any words to communicate it at all, and he was suddenly reminded that this witch was terrifying when she chose to be.

"Out with it, Draco," she growled.

Well. May as well stop beating around the bush. "The other night, when we fell asleep on the couch together." And it was all he needed to say because she was quick enough to catch the meaning without elaboration. Draco braced himself for the explosion.

" _HE SAW US?"_ she shrieked.

"Well, technically, we were covered with a blanket. I think," he pointed out and, when her features had begun to visibly darken, realized that she was probably not in the mood for jokes. "Not that it matters," he added quickly. "Yes, he saw us."

Granger leaped to her feet, looking horrified and quite deranged. "Oh, my God," she whined, sliding her hands into her bushy curls and panicking as she turned away from him. "Oh, my God. I can't believe this! I'm - I can't - I'm _never_ going to Defense again!"

When she spun quickly around to face him, her face was beet-red and she seemed to be on the verge of tears. Draco wanted to comfort her, but what words could he really offer?

 _Sorry, love, the most hideous and judgemental teacher in the school's seen you in bed, and you have to sit for his lesson on Wednesday, but don't worry, it probably won't be awkward._

Draco snorted softly at his own irony. "You can't avoid him forever, Hermione," he said soberly.

"I'll drop the subject," she replied, her voice fraught with tension. "It's that simple."

"Oh, brilliant, because _that's_ the wisest option right now, what with there being a psychotic Dark wizard on the loose who's trying to murder us all."

"I - well, I can't just _face him,_ Malfoy!" she shrilled, taking a few backwards paces before clutching suddenly at her stomach. "Oh, God. I'm going to be sick."

 _Shit._ Draco jumped up and took her by the shoulders, not entirely sure how to handle a girl who was ready to vomit on his shoes. She was too far away from either of their lavatories, and maybe he ought to conjure a pail of some sort for her, but if Draco was being quite frank, he was more interested in preventing it than witnessing it. Remembering what his mother used to do when there weren't any Nausea Potions on hand, he guided her over to the armchair.

"Just sit down, Hermione," he said composedly, and when she did, he pushed her head between her knees. "And breathe."

Hermione's wild hair fell in front of her face and she drew in heavy lungfuls of air. Rather uncomfortably, Draco tried to soothe her by rubbing slow circles into her back while she tried to mollify her own hyperventilation.

Merlin, he'd known it would be bad, but he wasn't anticipating a full-on anxiety attack.

"Oh, God," she whimpered again, cradling her forehead in her hands.

"It'll be alright," he said pointlessly, knowing full well that the words would do nothing to calm her - but it seemed fairly appropriate. It wasn't the end of the world, after all.

And Hermione straightened out suddenly, fixing him with a furious glare. "It'll be alright? Easy to say, coming from you!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, offended. "I was there, remember? You aren't the only one who's been outed, Granger!"

"It's your fault!"

" _My_ fault?" he asked incredulously. " _You_ were the one who fell asleep on the sofa!"

" _You were awake!_ You might've told me to move!"

Women.

"Look, assigning blame isn't going to change anything, Hermione," he said, struggling to be rational, which was very difficult when she was glowering so hatefully at him. "It takes two to Tango."

"I -" She stopped and gave him a suspicious look. "That's a Muggle expression."

"It most certainly isn't." Draco inclined his chin. "Wizards invented Ballroom Dancing, Granger."

Hermione tilted her chin unhappily and sniffed.

Knowing he had successfully stemmed her temper, Draco grinned deviously. "You didn't think the Foxtrot was the only one I could do, did you?"

She did not seem willing to dignify that statement with a response; instead, she directed a thousand-yard gaze toward the crackling hearth, looking pensive. "What are we going to do?"

Draco sighed dramatically. "The woes of clandestine lovers."

That earned him a hesitant grin. "Shut it, Malfoy."

"If it makes you feel any better, that didn't seem to be what he was most concerned about," he told her, and she arched a brow at him, waiting for him to go on. "He said you're in danger."

"How is that meant to make me feel better, Draco?"

He shrugged. "Well, it's quite apart from the idea that Snape's seen you in bed."

"Ugh. Let's not discuss that anymore," she said with a disgusted air. "Define 'danger.'"

"Well…" Draco began, already nervous at the very idea of it all. "He implied that my father would be less-than-receptive to your heritage, which we already knew, but Snape seems to think he's an actual threat. Like he'd try to attack you."

"I'm not afraid of Lucius Malfoy either which way," she insisted flatly, and Draco groaned because he had been expecting this, and the very last thing he needed or wanted was for her to get hurt because of him.

"Enough with your Gryffindor bravery, Hermione."

"So, you agree with him? You honestly think your father would attack me because I'm a Muggleborn?"

Draco dragged his hands down his face and tried to collect his thoughts, which were already whirling tempestuously in his mind. It was difficult to get them all in order when they were constantly fighting for dominance - and it was giving him a very unpleasant headache, which he also knew was a side-effect of having stopped occluding. He'd have to work on it, later.

"I don't know. Snape went to school with my father," he explained. "He was a few years behind him, mind, but he was also right there in the mix with Voldemort back then. He's known him for decades… he was one of the first people to meet me after I was born."

"Was he really?" she asked incredulously.

Draco nodded gravely. "Yes. It may not have always been, well, _obvious,_ but my parents are very close with Snape. My mum didn't go to him for help last year just because he's a Hogwarts professor. He's also one of the only people she and my father actually trust. Unfortunately, it isn't unlikely that Snape knows what he's talking about… and he's right about one thing for certain: my father is a killer."

He chanced a look at Hermione and saw that she looked very shocked indeed, although Draco couldn't imagine why. She'd known as much, after all - Death Eaters, his father included, were foul, murderous fiends, and if there were _any_ who could be vindicated as only doing what needed to be done, Lucius Malfoy was not one of them. But, he reasoned, she might've just been surprised to hear Draco admit it out loud.

"Well," she said softly. "I don't know what to say."

Which was fine, because neither did Draco, and there was really no need for her to reiterate what she'd already expressed; Hermione wasn't afraid of Lucius Malfoy, and there was nothing Snape or Draco or Merlin himself could say to change that. Honestly, Draco didn't know why he'd even dared to expect anything less of her.

Not in the mood to delve any further into it, Draco switched gears. "What have you found in the book?"

"Oh! I nearly forgot," she said happily, reaching for the book which still lay on the coffee table.

And out of nowhere, Draco's arm began to burn.

" _Fuck!"_ he swore, clapping his hand over the concealed Dark Mark and gritting his teeth against the pain. Granger was on her feet in a second, wearing that worried look in her eye that Draco was still not totally accustomed to seeing directed at him.

"Draco -"

"It's fine," he said gruffly, but he had a feeling that his face was pulled tight with strain, for the burn was not usually quite this bad. As it grew steadily more intense, Draco bit down on his lower lip, rubbing at the inflamed skin through the long sleeve of his shirt and willing the sensation to fade. He knew it wouldn't. "Ah, shit."

"Maybe you should sit down," she recommended, and Draco was in no state to protest as she took him by his other arm and lead him over to the couch. He inhaled sharply through his teeth and threw his head against the back of the sofa. "Is there anything…"

"No."

"I have Murtlap Essence," she told him, always trying to be helpful. "I have a few Pain Potions, Calming Draughts -"

Draco gave a short laugh. "Do you have anything narcotic?"

She shook her head apologetically. "No."

"It's okay, Hermione," he lied. "Just - just tell me what you've found in the book."

Looking apprehensive, she said, "Maybe you ought to lie down, it's already late."

Hm. Well, _that_ was certainly an idea, although Hermione probably didn't have a clue as to what would _really_ distract him from the pain. In all honesty, she probably wasn't ready for it yet; he could easily hurt her, but maybe he could control himself.

Leaning forward, Draco caught her by the wrist and hauled her body against his, smirking when she gave a little gasp of surprise. "I think," he said slowly, ignoring the building agony that was threatening to overtake him. "That I know just how you can help me, Granger."

"Oh?" she said in a sultry tone, and Draco, unspeakably grateful that she wasn't objecting out of concern for his health, slid an arm around her waist. "Do tell, Malfoy."

His gaze traveled lazily down to her parted lips and he traced the bottom one with his finger. "I'd rather show you," he said huskily, half arousal and half pain. But before he could dip his head to claim her in a kiss, the unmistakable sound of the portrait swinging open shattered the moment, and Hermione scrambled reflexively to the other side of the couch.

 _Every sodding time,_ he thought furiously.

Together, Draco and Hermione watched the archway to see who had come to interrupt them, and then Harry Potter seemed to materialize out of thin air, pulling what was indisputably a fucking _Invisibility Cloak_ from around his body. Draco remembered quite suddenly that Potter and Weasley had inexplicably appeared on the lawns when Crabbe had been about to kill him, and suddenly felt very foolish for not questioning it at the time. An Invisibility Cloak.

"No wonder you lot never get caught breaking the sodding rules," Draco grumbled.

"Harry," Hermione said carefully. "What happened?"

And to Draco's immense surprise, Potter ignored her. "Malfoy," he said. "It's hurting, isn't it? Your Mark."

Draco grimaced. "How did you know?"

"Because I've just been in Voldemort's head," he told them, striding purposefully into the room and flinging himself into an armchair. "He's really, really peeved this time. And he's killed someone again."

"Harry!" Hermione scolded. "You _must_ learn to close that connection -"

"It's the only way we've got to keep a head on him, Hermione!"

"Dumbledore wanted to you close it," she said sternly. "If _he_ didn't trust it, then neither should you!"

To say that Potter looked merely annoyed would have been a gross understatement, but he thankfully did not snap at her to shut her bossy mouth, which is probably what Draco would have done in Potter's position. "Gregorovitch is dead," he said with obvious aggravation.

"The wandmaker?" asked Draco.

"Right," Potter confirmed. "At least, I'm pretty sure he's dead. Voldemort never leaves survivors..."

And Potter cringed, his hand flying back up to his scar while Hermione looked lividly on.

"Don't look at me like that, Hermione," Potter warned.

"Harry!"

"I don't want to hear it!" he argued. "We've _got_ to figure out what Voldemort's been getting up to and this is the only way. He didn't find what he's looking for."

Despite her anger, Hermione clearly could not contain her impulsive need to ask questions. "You still don't know what it _is?"_

Potter shook his head, looking disappointed.

"Well," said Draco. "Doesn't it rather stand to reason that he's looking for a wand? Being that Gregorovitch is a wandmaker?"

The other two shared quick glances with each other and looked quickly away; Draco rolled his neck exasperatedly.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm out-of-the-loop on this?"

"Er," Hermione muttered unhelpfully. She looked over to Potter, who nodded some sort of approval, then said, "Harry's been having visions every once and a while, and Voldemort's been looking for Gregorovitch for some time now. But… we don't think he's looking for a wand because he's already got Ollivander held prisoner."

"He didn't have it, whatever it is," Harry elaborated, dragging his thumb across the scar as though applying pressure would mitigate the pain. "It was stolen from him years ago."

"You didn't see who it was?" asked Draco.

"No. Some bloke with blond hair - nicked it right out of Gregorovitch's house and took off out the window," Potter said absently.

"Well, _I've_ found something useful," Hermione said bracingly, sounding quite eager to move on. Draco guessed the topic of Potter's very interesting connection with Voldemort was a very touchy one indeed

She picked up _Influential Witches and Wizards of the Tenth Century_ and opened it to one of the bookmarked pages, running her finger along the paragraphs. "It turns out that Helena Ravenclaw was murdered," she said, appearing to speak more to the book itself than to the living people in the room. "She died very young."

Draco furrowed his brow and looked at Potter, and was grateful to see that at least the Chosen One seemed as confused as he did.

"Er -" Harry began.

"How is that _useful?"_ asked Draco skeptically.

Hermione raised her eyes, gaze flicking rapidly between both wizards. "Well, because it's possible that she's a ghost, of course."

She said this as though any idiot might have guessed.

"Not everyone turns into a ghost, Hermione," Harry reminded her. "Nearly-Headless Nick told us as much after Sirius died, remember?"

Hermione smiled sadly. "Yes, but Helena Ravenclaw's murder was rather brutal. I don't think it's a longshot to think she may have left an imprint."

Draco scoffed. "I can't believe this," he said. "I suggested that we ask a ghost _hours_ ago, but now that you've found it in a book, it's suddenly a brilliant idea?"

"Well, we can't just go up to any old ghost and ask for that kind of information," she sniffed, turning her nose up. "Firstly, we have to figure out exactly _which_ ghost she might be, if she is one at all. Anyway, Harry, I'll go to the library tomorrow and find what there is on Gregorovitch and Ollivander, but I think if you'd just try to practice Occlumency -"

"Alright, fine," he said, clearly irritated, and Draco could tell that Potter was going to ignore her advice entirely and not even try to block his mind even a little bit. "What did Snape say, Malfoy?"

" _Professor_ Snape, Harry," she corrected.

Draco raised his eyebrows at her and fought down the urge to laugh - after everything, Granger was _still_ concerned whether Snape got his due respect. She blushed and averted her gaze.

"Nothing, really," Draco lied. "He only said that if Theo had a directive that didn't involve me, he wasn't told about it… and that he'd see what he could do about finding out."

Potter sneered. "Yea, I'm sure he'll go out of his way," he said sarcastically.

"Well, have you been reading Dumbledore's biography?" Hermione asked cautiously.

"Er - no," Potter said. Draco wondered how in the hell Granger couldn't see that he was lying to her.

"Well, I'll have it back then, if you aren't going to read it!"

Potter cleared his throat and got to his feet. "Right, I'll start on it tomorrow," he said. "Better go check the Room of Requirement."

And he threw the Invisibility Cloak over his head and was gone before Hermione could protest.

"That boy!" she huffed indignantly.

"Honestly, Granger?" Draco teased. "How can you not _know_ when he's lying, after being his best friend for _six years?"_

Hermione glared. "What are you on about?"

"He's been reading that biography," he told her confidently.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "What reason would he have to lie to me about a book?"

But rather than answer, Draco took her by the hand and pulled her off the couch with a salacious grin. "Nevermind that. We were in the middle of something, weren't we?"

And Hermione smiled.

* * *

.

 **A/n: My two weeks at the second job I had are officially up, so the next two weeks before I get a second job are open to me. Expect edited work every two or three days.**

 **Mentions for this chapter go to tectonictigress, a new reviewer, and to darling draco.**

 **I got a lot of mixed reactions about Ginny, and about Hermione's behavior when it comes to Ron, and I'm really, really glad that this is the case. I want you guys to dislike the characters sometimes because they are not (and were never meant to be) Mary Sue's. All of these characters are flawed, and you should think that they are assholes every once-in-a-while and always question their motives.**

 **I enjoyed writing this chapter because I adore the ambiguous character of Severus Snape, and nothing really brings out Draco's petulant teenager characteristics** _ **quite**_ **like Snape does. Expect to see a lot more of him, Ginny, and Narcissa.**

 **As always, thank you for reading, for helping to keep me encouraged, and I adore you all.**


	24. Bedtime Reading

**Hello, my lovelies. I meant to get this chapter up as soon as possible but I'm going through a break-up right now. :/ It was a tough thing to do, and the aftermath of it is even worse.**

 **I will TRY TRY TRY to have a chapter out for you guys this evening, or possibly Wednesday. I've got to do payroll for my employees tonight, so a new chapter will be second priority.**

 **Anyway, here's some Dramione for you guys before we get back into the plot.**

* * *

.

Hermione had gotten a rather late start on Monday morning, which was, truly, not her fault at all.

Sure, maybe she ought to have told Draco to sod off when he'd rolled over in bed and pulled the length of her body against his, but in her defense, it had been very cold, and in what position was Hermione to deny him, really, when they were already undressed?

He'd said it would be quick - well, whispered it - and _that_ had been a lie.

And yes, she'd have been well within her rights to kick him out of her shower afterward, but it wouldn't have been exactly _fair,_ would it? They were already running behind for breakfast. She couldn't just make him go to his own bathroom, could she?

Maybe she'd allowed herself to indulge - a little - but frankly, there was just no resisting the handsome bastard, and anyway, breakfast wasn't all that important, was it?

This is what she told herself.

"Look sharp, Granger," Draco said smugly as they walked side by side down the seventh-floor corridor. "If you keep blushing like that, people will wonder what's got you so preoccupied."

Hermione shot him a contemptuous look. "That's twice you've used the same line in the space of a week. Whatever happened to all your creativity?"

"Someone's tetchy in the mornings," Draco responded cheerfully. "I was only wondering where your mind had wandered off to."

"Stop it," she admonished, but a sidelong glance in his direction told her that Draco knew exactly where her thoughts had gone; naturally, he was already grinning arrogantly back at her in that infuriating way only a Malfoy could accomplish.

"I'd be willing to wager," he teased. "Would you?"

"I'd be willing to hex you," she threatened, looking furtively around the hallway. "Don't you think it would be safer if we didn't walk together?"

Draco gave a one-shouldered shrug. _"I_ think we've as good as lost the cloak-and-dagger enigma of it all. The school's seen me hanging about with you and your pet idiots enough times to know that we're on the friendly side these days."

Hermione wrinkled her nose. "Not really. We're mostly in the common room."

"I suppose it's slipped your mind that the four of us ran three floors down to the trophy room yesterday, has it?"

"It was a Sunday, the corridors were empty -"

"Or that the whole of Slytherin house knows you and I were in the library together, thanks to Charlene Walters?"

"I suppose so, but -"

"And that it hasn't escaped the notice of the _entire_ school that I was involved in the sort of danger that _only_ your Gryffindor lot ever gets mixed up with?"

Hermione tried her best not to smile, but was failing miserably; honestly, she shouldn't encourage him, but, of course, it was true.

News about what had occurred with Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle hadn't been printed in the _Daily Prophet_ , but the Hogwarts rumor mill was as active as it ever was, distorting the actual events and churning out ludicrous exaggerations of what had really happened that night. It was no secret that Draco had been central to it all but, to his credit, he didn't seem to be getting on any worse for it. Actually, he appeared to be keeping a very level head about the whole ordeal, but that may have been because Draco hadn't started the school year with the same social standing he'd had before. It was, she thought, entirely possible that such trivialities were becoming less important to him on of the grand scale of things…

Or, Hermione mused, _she_ could be the reason for Draco's growing apathy for what others thought - but she pushed that hope firmly away because that was a silly dream and Hermione didn't have the available space in her head for any of those at the moment.

"You're making it rather hard to argue with you," she said grudgingly.

 _"That's_ because I'm always right, Granger."

 _"That's_ debatable."

Draco shoved a hand into the pocket of his robes and peered over the banister as they descended the Grand Staircase.

"Have you given any thought about what the Weasley girl said?" he asked in an absent sort of tone, observing the floors below them with a single eyebrow skeptically arched.

"Her name is Ginny," Hermione chided.

"Right. Ginny, the she-Weasley."

Hermione gave a soft tut and glared at him. "Don't be so rude, Malfoy."

"You're forgetting that she hexed me for no good reason," he countered, giving her an expression that dared her to contradict his logic. Hermione ignored him.

"Her main concern was that I didn't let Ron think that he and I had a date to Hogsmeade, and I'm sure she'll have heard all about how I broke it off yesterday," she reasoned. "Harry's got a lot to think about at the moment, so I'm sure she'll agree that there's nothing to be gained by upsetting him. I'll have to talk to her, though…why, what do _you_ think I should do?"

"They're your friends," said Draco ambiguously.

"Why even ask if you haven't got an opinion?" she snapped irritably, noting with aggravation that he was still watching the lower staircases and not paying attention either to her _or_ where he was going; Hermione feared that he would trip in his negligence, but he seemed to be exuding the same amount of steady poise as he usually did, which was annoying.

"Oh, I've got an opinion, Granger," he said loftily. "You just aren't going to like it."

They had finally come to the second-floor landing, but rather than continue on to the next staircase, Draco leaned over the railing and craned his neck toward the ground floor, eyes narrowed suspiciously as his gaze swept over their surroundings.

"Are you _looking_ for something?" she asked finally, coming to a stop behind him and staring at the back of his silvery-blond head.

"Yes," he said, pushing off the balustrade before he wheeled around to face her. "People."

Hermione readjusted her school bag, which was heavy enough to have been sliding treacherously off her shoulder, and tucked her hair behind her ear impatiently. "There's only twenty minutes of breakfast left. Everyone will already be in the Great Hall," she said rationally. "With that being said, we won't have had anything to eat if we wait around, so -"

"No," he objected tersely. "Something's off."

When they rounded the final corner, Hermione realized with an overwhelming sense of dread that Draco had been right: there were at least a hundred students milling about in the entrance hall, most of them wearing sullen expressions and almost none of them in their school robes. Many of the girls were crying openly, pulling their friends into tight embraces while the boys simply stood forlornly with their heads bowed, looking distinctly sour; at the front of the crowd, Mad-Eye Moody was leaning tensely on his walking stick, one false eye darting swiftly over the students as he stood between two other Aurors whom Hermione didn't recognize.

Hermione turned to Draco, who shrugged bewilderedly. He looked equally as confused as she felt - and all Hermione could think was that there had been an attack, someone had died, someone had been _taken -_

She hurried down the steps and approached the first - and most obvious - friendly face she could see.

"Hagrid," she whispered, tugging on the sleeve of the half-giant's moleskin coat; he rotated on the spot and looked down on her from his considerable height, armed with a crossbow.

"Hullo, Hermione," he said gravely and then nodded curtly over her head. "Malfoy," he added gruffly, his dislike for the younger wizard strongly evident in his tone.

"What's happened?" asked Hermione urgently.

"Parents are takin' their kids outta school," he told her. "After what happened last week, they don' think it's safe, an' with Dumbledore gone…" Hagrid trailed off sadly at the memory, then cleared his throat and seemed to regain his composure. "Well, yer understand. We're escortin' 'em to the train."

"But that was almost a week ago!" she argued.

"Professor McGonagall didn't send out the owls 'til Friday," Hagrid explained. "Parents were scramblin' to withdraw 'em over the weekend, but it's safer ter transport 'em on durin' the week, see? Load of rubbish. Hogwarts is as safe as it gets, if yer ask me. Mad-Eye's not that happy 'bout it, either." He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned down to Hermione's level. "He reckons it'll make You-Know-Who attack quicker if students are bein' moved outta the castle."

"I…" Hermione glanced over at Moody and watched as his electric-blue eye swiveled to focus on Draco, who was still standing behind her. "No one told me," she said finally, dragging her eyes away from the Auror to look up at Hagrid. "We're the Heads, and no one's told us."

Hagrid waved a giant hand. "It wouldn'tve changed nothin if yer'd known. Professor McGonagall was tryin' ter give yer some time to recover, I 'spect. Are yer feelin' alrigh' now?"

"Much better," she assured him with a soft smile.

"Well, nothin' ter be done about it now," said Hagrid. "Yer'd best be seein' Ginny off, she's in a right state."

Hermione's eyes went wide with shock. "Ginny's leaving?"

"Yer know how Molly gets about her kids." Hagrid nodded, and Hermione looked wildly around for the red-headed witch.

"Thanks, Hagrid!" Hermione said quickly, sparing him a parting wave before she shoved her way through the dense throng of students and burst through the other end of the crowd. Ignoring both Harry and Ron, Hermione threw her arms around Ginny's neck; the younger witch staggered backwards but did not hesitate to return Hermione's frantic hug.

"They're making me leave," said Ginny angrily against her shoulder; Hermione could hear the suppressed waver in her friend's voice. "My stupid mum, I bet."

After a long moment spent in each other's arms, the two girls separated, and Hermione gazed apologetically at her friend. Ginny was doing her best to maintain a courageous front, but it was very obvious that she was fighting back tears, and Hermione wasn't surprised: even if Ginny wasn't in love with Harry, she'd never have left Hogwarts by her own choice.

"They're only trying to protect you," Hermione soothed, turning to Harry for support. But the black-haired wizard looked conflicted, as though he wasn't sure whether to be bitter or relieved.

"We'll see just how happy Mum is once I get there," Ginny snarled. "She'll regret this before the week is out."

"Ginny, don't go starting trouble -" Hermione began to protest, but she was interrupted smoothly by Draco, whom she'd forgotten about completely. She hadn't expected him to follow her this far.

"Weasley," he muttered in a low voice, and when Ron sent him a hateful grimace, promptly specified, "I meant _Ginny._ You're going to London, then?"

"I suppose," the witch answered hesitantly. "I'd assume that's where my parents are still living."

"Right," said Draco. "Can I have a word?"

Ron's face pulled into a dangerous sneer. "Whatever you've got to say to my sister, you can say it in front of all of us, Malfoy."

Draco turned his eyes calmly to Ron. "It's no business of yours, Weasley."

Ginny, who even in normal circumstances would have told her brother off for trying to inject himself into her conversations, seemed especially nettled by Ron's demand, for she flipped her hair over her shoulder and allowed Draco to guide her out of earshot.

"That was unnecessary, Ronald," Hermione hissed once they had gone.

 _"Don't_ tell me what's necessary when it comes to my family," said Ron defensively.

"He's _obviously_ trying to give her a message for his parents. Honestly, you act like he's trying to kidnap her -"

"I thought I told you not to talk to me?" growled Ron, and then to Harry, "I told her not to talk to me."

"Oh, _that's_ mature!"

But before Ron could form what would undoubtedly be quite a disdainful reply, Harry cut in: "Can you two not do this just now?" he asked hotly, fixing them each with accusatory glares.

Ron fell immediately silent. Feeling foolish, Hermione crossed her arms and directed her attention to Mad-Eye, who had just brought the crowd to attention and was barking orders about not breaking rank to a lot of very apathetic students. "I suppose we knew this would happen sometime, didn't we?"

Ginny's conversation with Draco must have been very short indeed, for she re-appeared only moments later and had resumed her resentful glower at the Aurors who would be escorting her.

"Old codger," Ginny grumbled uncharitably. "I suppose I'll be seeing more of Tonks, at least."

Hermione nodded. "Don't be so upset," she assuaged. "There's still plenty you can do to help, you don't necessarily have to be at Hogwarts to be a part of it."

Ginny gave a short laugh. "Mum'll probably be having me do chores. _Clean out Kreacher's cupboard, Ginny, it's your duty to the Order!"_ she mimicked unkindly.

Despite herself, Hermione laughed as well. "Don't forget to write, Ginny. We'll see you at Christmas."

"Hermione," said the younger witch seriously, giving her a direct stare. "Don't forget what we talked about."

"I won't," she promised, and when Harry slid his arm around Ginny's shoulders and pulled her soundly against him, Hermione politely averted her gaze and took in a fistful of Ron's robes.

"Come on, Ronald," Hermione said bossily, dragging him alongside her toward the Great Hall.

"But -"

 _"Come on,"_ she repeated, gesturing pointedly toward the couple. "Let them say goodbye."

Having apparently decided that he'd been led far enough away, Ron wrenched himself away from her and lengthened his stride, beating her to the Gryffindor table where he could comfortably brood for what was left of breakfast.

It was abundantly clear to Hermione that a truce was weeks away - perhaps longer, depending on Ron's temper, which was only ever reliable in the sense that it was completely unreliable. But, really, Hermione wasn't going to grovel; Ron had been unjustifiably mean to her, and this wasn't going to be one of the times she excused it just to have things return to normal.

Even if she _had_ been wrong.

Sitting resolutely across from him, Hermione gazed out over the Great Hall, which was now much more sparsely populated than before. Hogwarts didn't have a particularly large enrollment, and there had to have been at least a hundred students who had been withdrawn. Many of them had been Muggleborns, Hermione realized as she searched in vain for the Creevey brothers; it was not a particularly encouraging thought - their Muggle parents would not be able to adequately protect them against Dark wizards, and yet the children were no safer at Hogwarts should the Death Eaters invade the castle. It seemed that there were no right decisions.

Harry finally trudged over to the bench and took a seat next to her, looking quite lost as he piled eggs mechanically onto his plate.

"Harry?" Hermione cautioned. "Are you alright?"

"Fine," he said blankly. "It's better. It's safer for her to be in London. No one can find her there."

Ron mumbled a repulsive agreement through a mouthful of toast, then swallowed hugely and waved his fork toward the other end of the Great Hall. "Doesn't look like any of _them_ got pulled out."

Harry and Hermione both turned in their seats to see the Slytherin table, where there did not indeed seem to be any missing students at all - instantly, her eyes flew to the telltale head of blond hair; Draco was sitting between Davis and Greengrass and appeared to be engaging in a rather heated exchange with Blaise Zabini, scowling at the dark-skinned boy as he mutilated his french toast.

"No surprises there. Their parents probably don't think there's a real threat to them," said Hermione. "Hm. Theo Nott isn't at breakfast."

"Pass the milk, Harry," Ron said loudly.

Hermione scoffed, for the milk was closer to her than it was to Harry, who would have had to reach across her in order to pass it. Calmly, Hermione set the pitcher in front of Ron, who ignored it and stubbornly fixed himself a cup of coffee instead.

With an absurd sense of satisfaction, Hermione snickered cruelly when the red-haired wizard sipped it and then cringed in obvious distaste: Ron hated coffee.

Harry, however, was not amused in the slightest. He dropped his flatware onto his plate with a noisy clatter and then rose from the bench, stalking away from the table without looking at either of his quarreling friends.

.

* * *

.

Things hadn't improved as the day wore on. In fact, they had gotten a lot worse.

Harry had been so preoccupied that he didn't speak very much at all, and Ron had become increasingly more rude to Hermione with every passing lesson. He'd become so miserable to be around that Hermione had resolved to pair with Neville on the other side of any given classroom just to be as far away from him as physically possible. The only bright side was that she'd had quite a good laugh during Herbology, when Ron had refused to acknowledge her warning and had to be sent to the hospital wing because he'd mistakenly grabbed his Maldendron, a particularly violent and toxic plant that looked like poison ivy but whose tendrils cut into a person's skin and left painful welts behind.

Her classmates had no shortage of topics to gossip about. The rooms were buzzing with chatter as a general rule, all conversations relating to who was withdrawn from school and why parents had been inclined to do it in the first place. Hermione, who hadn't been in lessons for an entire week, was therefore bombarded with questions regarding her health and not-so-subtle inquiries as to what had occurred with Pansy. Truthfully, she didn't understand why they thought that she would provide any more useful information than what Harry and Ron had already given them because Hermione didn't exactly have a forthcoming history with any of her peers, and while she appreciated the apparently genuine concern for her wellbeing, she found that she was rather averse to all the attention.

Hermione didn't have time for it, for one thing.

She'd already been to several of her professors in order to retrieve the homework for which lessons she'd missed, and the workload was staggering. Paired with the much more important task of finding the Diadem and the ominous threat of whatever Theodore Nott was getting up to in the Room of Requirement, the added pressure of her NEWT-level school work was quite as daunting as the rest of her problems.

Which, Hermione thought frustratedly, was rather difficult to focus on because a _certain_ Slytherin was in all of her lessons that day except for Herbology. If Draco had been distracting before, it was nothing compared to the way he now seemed to arrest her every thought when she sat in front of him during class. She was sure she could feel him watching her, which she _knew_ had to be preposterous because Draco would never be so daft as to openly stare at her in the presence of other students, with or without the fact that everyone seemed to know that things had changed. Still, if the hair standing on the back of her neck was any indication, Hermione could safely guess that Draco was just as preoccupied with her as she was with him.

This did absolutely nothing to help matters, because, again, Hermione didn't have time for any of it.

In order to escape, Hermione resorted to cowering in the library, where she promptly tucked into a deserted corner and dove head first into several of her overdue essays, pausing only to search for any books that might have a trace of Helena Ravenclaw's life.

She'd been perusing the _Biographies_ section when her comfortable solace was quite rudely shattered.

"Enjoying yourself?" came a lazy drawl from behind her.

Hermione started violently and whipped around, wand brandished directly at Draco Malfoy's smirking face.

"Christ, Malfoy," she said, annoyed. "Don't _do_ that."

"I should tell you, Granger," he replied. "I don't like having wands pointed at me."

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him but acquiesced, stowing the offending object in the pocket of her robes. "What are you doing here?"

"The library's open to all students, if you didn't realize."

"Obviously," she said, still waiting for an answer. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he spat exasperatedly. "I ran into the two witless wonders outside the Room of Requirement. They have that blasted cloak, so they're really the logical choice to stake it out. Potter said you were here. Told me to fetch you before you decided to skip out on dinner."

"I wasn't going to skip dinner!" Hermione denied.

Draco raised an eyebrow. "Well, really, Granger," he said superiorly. "There's no need to lie."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but the rebuttal died instantly on her lips when Draco took a step into her, his arm reaching for the bookshelf above her head.

"I - don't -" she tried, but the intoxicatingly spicy scent of his cologne was making it difficult for her to think straight. Hermione cast her eyes around for onlookers and whispered furiously, _"Malfoy, stop it!"_

But Draco only grinned. "Nervous?" he asked silkily, and when he pulled his arm away from the shelf, he was holding the exact book Hermione had been eyeing before he showed up. "This _is_ what you were looking for, isn't it?"

Actually, it was, but Hermione was not going to give him the satisfaction of hearing her admit it. She glanced down at the thin, blue and bronze book that was titled _Rowena Ravenclaw: A Study of Wisdom and Willpower,_ and snatched it out of Draco's hand, shooting him a pointed glare as she sidestepped his thin form to return to her table.

"How long have you been down here?" he asked conversationally as he took the chair across from hers.

"Since lessons ended," she responded, scanning the book's Table of Contents. "What did you talk to Ginny about this morning?"

"I told her to keep her mouth shut about what she knows," said Draco flippantly.

Hermione snapped to attention. _"Malfoy!"_

"Relax." He grinned. "I did bring it up, but she said I didn't need to tell her. Said she wasn't stupid."

"She isn't," Hermione agreed.

"I gave her a message to pass along to my mother."

"I assumed as much," Hermione said, reluctantly breaking his gaze to look back down to the book.

The biography was disappointingly short, but there was, at least, a small entry about her family; even if there wasn't anything that focused on Helena explicitly, it was still possible that learning about Rowena's early life could give them some clue as to a place Voldemort might have hidden it. He'd have chosen a spot with extreme significance, obviously…

"Anything useful?"

 _"Shhh,"_ she hushed without looking up. "I'm trying to read."

In her peripheral vision, she noticed that Draco had taken her Ancient Runes essay and was reading it over critically; Hermione reached forward and tried to pull it out of his hands.

"Do your own homework!"

"Already have," he said arrogantly. Hermione yanked on the parchment again but he did not relinquish his hold. "I'm not Potter or Weasley. I know how to write my own essays. Head Boy, and all that."

"Then you won't have any problem handing it back," she challenged.

"Perhaps I want to collaborate with an equally brilliant mind."

 _"Or_ you're trying to annoy me."

He wagged his eyebrows suggestively. "Is it working?"

"This is _exactly_ why I came to the library instead of the common room, Malfoy."

"So I couldn't… _distract_ you?"

 _Yes._

"No."

Hermione let go of the essay and Draco jerked it away from her, making quite a show of straightening out the parchment so that he could read it. "Tut-tut. Such disrespect for your homework, Granger."

"Go away, Malfoy," she ordered. "I'm trying to focus."

"Potter gave me a mission," he said impishly. "Mission: Get Granger to Dinner Before She Wastes Away in the Library."

Realizing quickly that there was not going to be any further opportunity to concentrate with Draco there to bother her, Hermione cast a wordless _Muffliato_ and set the biography down. "Did you hear what Hagrid said earlier? Mad-Eye thinks that Voldemort will attack the school earlier now that students are being moved out."

Draco snorted derisively. "Mad-Eye also charmed his _dustbins_ into intruder alarms."

"And they'd done their job, didn't they?" she pointed out. "There _was_ an intruder, and Mad-Eye spent the next nine months at the bottom of a chest while a Death Eater impersonated him."

"Not saying that I agree with you, but yes, he might be right," Draco admitted. "Voldemort wants to build an army… the best way to do that is by starting them off when they're young. If he thinks all the children will leave, he'll try to take over before they're gone."

"Does he…" Hermione began hesitantly. "Does he talk about his plans often?"

Draco adopted a far-off expression and stared unseeingly past her shoulder. He must have been remembering something truly unpleasant, for an ugly sneer began to unfurl on his elegantly pointed features.

"Depends on whether he's in the mood for speech-making. Sometimes he is, sometimes he'd rather torture his followers for daring to fail him," he said distantly. "Usually, he'll talk at length when he's trying to pretend that he and his followers are the image of polite society."

Deciding that she'd probably crossed into uncomfortable territory, Hermione changed the subject. "Theo wasn't at breakfast."

"He _was_ in lessons," Draco said, clearing his throat. "But Potter confirmed that he isn't on the map. Trouble is, I'm not sure whether waiting outside the Room of Requirement is going to do any good. Potter tried that all last year, and it didn't get _him_ anywhere. Snape said that there might not be any way to get it out of him unless Theo tells someone expressly, and… Well. Theo isn't going to tell a soul. He's… not the type."

"Yes, but we can't just do nothing. Maybe if we enlisted the help of the DA, they can take it in shifts..." she pondered and then realized with a jolt that she didn't even know who would be patrolling the corridors this evening. Draco watched inquisitively as she began to rummage through her school bag for the Prefects' rota. "Oh, _damn."_

"Care to elaborate?" he pressed.

"Romilda Vane had rounds tonight, but she's been pulled out of school," she explained disappointedly. "I'm going to have to fill in for her, there's no time to ask Professor McGonagall to appoint new Prefects…"

Draco gave a long-suffering sigh. "Have you no faith in the Head Boy, Granger?" he said theatrically. "I've already asked Weasley to cover it. Though, I'm not sure that he'll really be patrolling anywhere but the entrance to the Room of Requirement."

Hermione smiled. "And I suppose you've already rescheduled the Prefects' meeting, have you?"

"No, actually. I thought we'd agree on that as a team."

"What?" Hermione said with mock astonishment. "No more ridiculous male supremacy? No more _'we're using this rota because I've said we're using it?'"_

"Don't push it, Granger," Draco said flatly, but Hermione caught the subtle curving of his lips before he suppressed his reaction. "So… have you been to Snape to get the work you missed?"

Hermione blushed and quickly averted her gaze, mumbling an incoherent response.

"What was that, Granger?" he said, leaning forward as though he couldn't hear.

"I said, no, I haven't been to see him," she huffed.

"Ah," said Draco obnoxiously. "I thought that's what you said. There's no use in delaying the inevitable, you know."

"I can wait until the Defense lesson on Wednesday," she said.

"Perhaps," he conceded slyly.

"Or, you could go get it for me?" she suggested hopefully.

"Ha!" he laughed. "I never thought I'd see the day. Brave _Miss_ Hermione Granger, resident know-it-all, too scared to confront a teacher!"

"Oh, come off it, Malfoy," she groaned, instinctively hiding her embarrassment behind two hands.

"Honestly, Granger, he isn't going to _tease_ you about it. It's not like he's some creepy middle-aged voyeur, we fell asleep in the common room. That's our fault, not his."

" _Our?_ Not _ours,"_ she maintained stubbornly. "Yours."

Draco seemed not to have heard her. "And his warning about my father?"

Hermione sighed. "I don't know," she confessed. "Really, I don't think it matters, to be frank. Either he's a Death Eater who's trying to kill me for being a Muggleborn, or he's a defected Order member trying to kill me for being a Muggleborn who's sleeping with his heir. The end is the same."

"That's a rather… morbid way to look at it, don't you think?"

"It's the truth," she said quietly.

"You don't care."

"No," Hermione returned with certainty. "I don't."

Draco settled back into his chair and watched her through narrowed eyes; Hermione stared steadily back and, for a long moment, neither of them spoke. In this situation, words were unnecessary, for the unasked questions that hung in the air between them were ones that neither was ready to address.

It was Draco who finally broke the silence. Checking his watch, he scooted his chair back and, pulling his wand from the pocket of his robes, pointed it at the table. _"Pack,"_ he said, and every book, quill, and parchment folded themselves neatly into Hermione's school bag, which Draco then slung over his shoulder. "Dinner time."

"Uhm, I'll have my bag back, thanks," she said indignantly.

"Nope." Draco grinned. "I'm taking this to the common room."

"Why?"

"Because," he said simply. "I have no intentions of letting you come back to the library after dinner."

.

* * *

.

Hermione was well aware of what Draco's intentions _were_ , but that wasn't the only reason why Hermione was keen to be rid of her friends' company. Ron was no longer ignoring her or making oblique and inconsiderate comments. He was being blatantly hostile, which Hermione knew to be the direct result of the livid, red marks that were twisting around his forearm.

According to Harry, (which he had explained to her in hasty undertones) Madam Pomfrey had done what she could, but that particular sort of herbological injury could only be treated with a very painful anti-venom, and the wounds themselves could only heal in the open air. The matron had explained that Ron would almost definitely bear the scars for the rest of his life, and personally, Hermione felt that he quite deserved it for being thick enough not to wear his dragonhide gloves. Perhaps she was succumbing to her own vindictive streak, but she had decided to abandon all sympathy for him after he'd told her that she needed to go brush her ugly hair.

And yes, it would have been nice if Harry had come to her defense, but all he'd done was turn silently away and shake his head - and that was all Hermione could really hope for because she knew that, no matter how bad her and Ron's rows got, Harry hated to get involved.

And yes, maybe she was guilty of goading Ron just a little bit when she told him to quit stuffing his fat mouth full of food, but really, _he_ been the one who snatched the pitcher out of her hands and covered her meal in pumpkin juice.

None of this was made any better by the fact that Lavender and Parvati had been watching the display with obvious amusement, which had made Hermione want to smack both of their nosy faces and tell them to mind their own affairs. Both girls were wise enough not to comment, however, so Hermione had spared them her wrath.

Thankfully, Harry hadn't been sulking quite as much over Ginny's absence as he had done that morning, which was probably due in part to the fact that he'd managed to focus all his energy on trailing Theo around the castle. It was only when Harry started to feel utterly useless that he really became a danger to himself - well, that wasn't strictly true. Harry Potter was a danger to himself at any given time, but more so when he was idle, which made Hermione very glad that he'd found something to occupy himself with. God only knew what would become of them all if he didn't.

It was, therefore, with a feeling of profound relief that Hermione made her way up to her dormitory. It had been quite a long and very discouraging day, and really, Hermione had experienced enough emotional turbulence to last her through the end of October.

Hermione had grown accustomed to being greeted with startling images when she entered her own common room, but _this..._ Well, _this_ was peculiar for two reasons: one, Draco was idly scratching the top of Crookshanks' fuzzy head while he lounged casually in one of the armchairs - and Draco Malfoy had _never_ been the least bit friendly with her cat; two, he was reading a bit of parchment that Hermione recognized, and her own bag was lying open on the coffee table with all of her school detritus scattered about its surface, which meant that _Draco Malfoy was looking through her things -_

"What are you doing, Draco?" Hermione asked crossly.

As though he hadn't heard her come in, which she knew he had, he slowly raised his eyes to meet hers. "Reading."

"You're _rummaging!"_ she accused.

"Well, if you already knew the answer, I can't imagine why you would bother to ask."

"I _knew_ I should have kept my bag! That's - that's an invasion of privacy, Draco!"

He gave her a wry look. "Are your Arithmancy charts private, Hermione?"

"I - _everything_ in my bag is private, you had no right -"

"I only meant to have a look at that biography you got from the library - which, by the way, you forgot to properly check out - but I got carried away. You really are…" he looked back down at her charts. " _Thorough,_ aren't you?"

"Well," she said uncomfortably. "Honestly, Draco, there's no point in doing something if you aren't going to do it right, is there?"

"My thoughts exactly," he said, his eyes glinting mischievously.

Hermione watched him carefully. "And since when are you and Crookshanks on such amicable terms?"

"He's not so bad. Hideous, though." He shrugged. "But I would tell him to get lost if I were you."

"Why?" she asked suspiciously. When Draco did not respond, Hermione finally said to her familiar, "Crookshanks, go on. Go hunt some mice."

Stretching languidly on Draco's lap, the cat leaped to the floor and then bounded out of the common room with, surprisingly, no objections to his dismissal. After Crookshanks had gone, Draco retook his feet and pointed his wand over Hermione's head; she turned to face the entrance to the common room with surprise as Draco fired several non-verbal spells at the archway in quick succession: silence, concealment, a faintly shimmering enchantment that looked like a Shielding Ward.

Hermione spun around to face him. "Why…"

But Draco was already upon her, grasping her waist firmly in his hands and guiding her forcefully backward.

"Because, I'm tired of your friends interrupting me when I'm trying to ravish you," he said coarsely. "And I want to finish what I started a month ago -" Hermione's arse collided roughly with the table and she gasped, the heady anticipation coiling in her abdomen as Draco flattened his palms against the wooden surface on either side of her hips. " - right here. On this table."

There was a distinctly predatory look in his eye as he leaned close to her, his face but mere inches from her own. Hermione swallowed down her impending lust and angled her torso away from his.

"I have half a mind to reject you after you rummaged through my things," she said weakly but was aware that the heat pooling between her thighs was betraying her every word.

"Only half?" he muttered seductively, defining the line of her jaw with the tip of his finger and then trailing it gently over her lips.

"I -" But, Christ, it was so very tiresome to _think_ when all she wanted to do was touch. "I'm still angry with you."

He chuckled darkly and dipped his head, nose brushing against her ear as he unclasped the fastenings of her Hogwarts robe. "Are you telling me that I can share your bed, but not your bloody _book_ bag, Granger?"

His breath was warm on the delicate skin of her neck, inciting traitorous shivers of pleasure that echoed down to her hips.

"I suppose -" she murmured helplessly as took her ear between his teeth and exhaled deeply. "- I can forgive you."

But Draco didn't seem at all interested in whether or not Hermione had forgiven him. He had already loosened her tie and pulled it from around her neck, discarding it next to her robe and making short work of the buttons of her Oxford. Hermione reached to help him out of his shirt, but he caught her wrist.

"Don't touch, Hermione," Draco warned.

"I - why?" she asked breathlessly, confused and impatient.

"So many questions," he mocked, sliding his hands to the underside of her legs and lifting her to the surface of the table. He settled himself between her thighs and yanked his own tie over his head, undoing the buttons of his shirt as he stared down at her.

"Why can't I touch you?" she whispered, offended.

"Because," he growled, suddenly aggressive as he wound his fingers through her hair and bent so that his mouth was next to her ear. "I've been waiting to fuck you like I want to fuck you, and I want you to let me do it. Is that alright with you?"

He regarded her through rapidly storming eyes, and when he used his unrelenting grip on her hair to slowly drag her head backwards, Hermione knew she was lost to him. If the sheer eroticism of his words wasn't enough to undo her, the blissfully painful sensation in her scalp certainly was.

"Yes," she whimpered, and Draco grinned before his lips descended roughly upon hers, using his other hand to push the thin fabric of her knickers aside and slipping first one, then two fingers into her already slick opening. Hermione moaned, savoring the taste of peppermint as he kissed her ardently, bracing her hands on the surface of the table and leaning away from his body to allow him the access she so desperately needed.

Draco pulled torturously out of her, waiting until her hips bucked against his hand, waiting until she sought more of him before he pressed deeper into her slit, burying his fingers to the knuckle and twisting upward, earning a strangled gasp that very nearly caught in her throat. He tore his lips away from hers, planting soft kisses along her neck until, after she shuddered, bit painfully down on the sensitive spot beneath her ear - Hermione took in a sharp breath, but he seemed to understand intuitively that she was not opposed, for he sucked the skin into his mouth and lingered there for a long moment, following the sound of her moans and moving slowly down toward her throat. He dragged his fingers out of her again and Hermione writhed needily.

"Jesus, Draco, stop teasing," she pled, arching her back as pleasure began to consume every coherent thought.

"You agreed to let me do this, Granger," said Draco in a voice that was frayed and heavy with desire.

"Please," Hermione whined, and he rewarded her by sinking his fingers back into her heat, drawing unhurried circles around her clit before claiming her lips again. His tongue swept into her mouth and Hermione groaned, wanting more - needing more, needing the rest of him. "You're not being fair," she said despairingly.

"You agreed," he singsonged, grinning haughtily as he quickened his rhythm - but not enough to take her where she wanted to go.

"For fuck's sake, Draco!"

He flicked his thumb over her most sensitive spot, tormenting her with his languorous speed, watching her with an unabashedly voracious expression as her hips moved in time with his slowly pumping digits.

"Such _language,_ Hermione," he admonished, but the subtle breaks in his voice made it clear to her that even he was beginning to lose his control - surely he couldn't keep this up, surely he'd have to give up this facade of restraint.

Unable to take it any longer, Hermione sat up straight and hooked her fingers through his belt, hauling him closer to her and jerking frantically at the buckle - but he pushed her flat against the table, somehow managing to look relaxed as he allowed his gaze to drift lazily over her form.

"Don't make me tie you up, Granger," he threatened, running his hand over her collarbone, along the valley created by her breasts and down her abdomen, before abruptly withdrawing his hands from her completely; Hermione cried out for the loss of him, propping herself up on her elbows just as he yanked her skirt and knickers down her legs in one swift motion.

Draco knelt in front of her, shoving her knees aggressively to either side and smoothing his tongue leisurely over her clit, the tips of his fingers digging into her thighs as Hermione threw her head back and moaned in ecstasy. He laved attentively at her folds, pausing agonizingly to build her pleasure until she finally tensed and, at long last, Draco gave her what she wanted. Swirling his tongue rapturously across her apex as she gripped the edges of the table, he pushed her into oblivion and she came, moaning and writhing on the wooden surface until her shuddering subsided.

When Draco finally got to his feet, he smirked arrogantly down at her, but the evidence of his arousal was written very plainly on his face: his eyes were thunderous, his pale skin flushed with excitement, his anticipation obvious in the set of his shoulders.

"Done, Granger?" he asked.

"No," she said blithely, and Draco dropped all pretenses, coming quickly out of his trousers and freeing the throbbing erection which Hermione was still sometimes intimidated by. He poised himself at her entrance but waited, looking pained as he denied himself the immediate satisfaction; he rested his hand on the curve of her cheek and swallowed, his gaze darting over her face with eyes that were dark as slate in his lust.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" Draco asked huskily, running a still-glistening thumb over her lip and applying gentle pressure to her lower row of teeth, slipping it into her mouth when she opened instinctively for him; Hermione registered his groan of barely-suppressed desire and then gasped when he thrust into her without warning, keening into the palm of his hand as her eyelids fluttered closed.

"Fuck," he swore, and judging by the raggedness of his voice, she guessed that the sight of her must have been very erotic indeed, which was as nothing to the carnal pleasure she herself was being overcome by.

And when he had steadied himself and began to move against her, his pace was by no means gentle - it had never been like this before, he must have been seriously holding back all this time, but his aggression was everything she had no idea she'd wanted. He thrust passionately into her, his nails biting into the flare of her hip, his groans coming in tattered growls while Hermione tilted her pelvis upward, urging him toward the spot she needed him to reach and clutching desperately at his arm.

Halting briefly to throw her leg over his shoulder, Draco dragged her arse part-way off the table and drove into her with renewed vigor, and when her moans became sharp and fast, he angled himself with determination and certainty, fighting for her release - and then Hermione's second orgasm ripped through her. Hermione gave a visceral cry, her back arching off the table as she tightened around him, her climax washing over her in wave after wave of prolonged bliss until she was able to finally relax.

"Draco," she whimpered softly, relinquishing her hold on his forearm and allowing her head to fall to the side in her post-coital exhaustion.

But Draco took sudden advantage of his grip on her chin, turning her to face him as he neared his own completion. "Look at me, Hermione," he demanded tightly, and her eyes locked on his own - Draco's intent gaze never left hers as he thrust into her a final few times, spending himself with a long groan of euphoria. He seemed to be unable to breathe properly, for he drew in deep, heaving lungfuls of air and put all his weight into the flats of his palms, leaning over her with his hands on either side of her chest. Amazingly, he still managed to smirk as he lowered himself to plant a discordantly chaste kiss on her lips.

"What was that?" Hermione whispered, pushing his silvery blond hair out of his face as she looked up at him.

"I told you," Draco panted. "It wouldn't always be gentle… Did I hurt you?"

She smiled. "It was wonderful," Hermione assured him. "But I should warn you, I'm going to get you back for this."

"Ohhh, I'm shaking," he teased, pushing off the table and bending to draw his wand from the pocket of his trousers. "Truly terrified, Granger."

"You laugh now," she said, flashing him a knowing grin.

In a strangely domestic gesture, Draco waved his wand and soundlessly _packed_ all her belongings back into her school bag, with the exception of a single book, and summoned the lot into his waiting hands.

"...What are you doing?" she asked.

He held up _Rowena Ravenclaw: A Study of Wisdom and Willpower_ and grinned. "Bedtime reading."

Hermione hummed her agreement. "My bed, or yours?"

* * *

.

 **Mentions for this chapter go to SkyeMoor and Clover1302**


	25. The Last Will and Testament

**Thanks to all of you for all your well-wishes regarding my breakup. Unfortunately, it needed to be done**.

 **The co-owner who is just starting to be an Operations partner in my company is coming in to wreck everything. He's forcing me to reduce wages for my existing entry-level employees and its SOOFUCKINGSTUPIDANDIHATEIT. So I'll be dealing with the backlash of that for a while, but I'll for sure have an update on Saturday.**

* * *

.

"Rowena Ravenclaw's family came from southern Bulgaria..." said Hermione thoughtfully.

"They didn't. It's a commonly known fact that Ravenclaw was from Scotland, and anyway, there's no mistaking that brogue."

"Not according to this. Her family must have emigrated at some point."

"Well, that'll explain her dark features."

"Right," Hermione agreed, flipping back to the book's title page. "Oh, my God. This was published in the year 1003!"

"... How exciting."

" _Draco_ , in the 1000s, European borders were much different from what they are today," she explained pedantically. "Back then, that area would have been part of the Bulgarian Empire; today, it's called _Albania."_

Sigh. "And I suppose this is significant, for some reason?"

" _Yes!_ Albania is where Voldemort hid for more than a decade after the curse rebounded!" She returned to the paragraph she had been reading and said pensively, "I'd just assumed that he chose Albania because it was still a socialist nation at the time, but - "

"Albania was a _what?"_

"A socialist nation, it's -" She stopped abruptly, turning in bed to face him as though she'd had some sort of epiphany. "What do you know about the Second World War, Draco?"

"I know what Binns said back in fourth year. That the Wizarding World kept out of it."

"So… so, you don't know anything about the Holocaust."

"What is that, a spell of some sort? A curse? Get to the point, Granger."

Hermione watched him apprehensively. "It's the historical name given to the mass extermination of European Jews by the fascist tyrant, Adolf Hitler."

"Jews. You mean the Jewish religion?"

Nod. "It is a religion. But it's also a people. It's a culture all by itself."

"When you say 'mass extermination'..."

"I mean more than six million - and that's only what the records show. There's really no way to accurately determine the death toll because their captors didn't think them worthy of proper documentation."

"Six _million?_ That's -"

" - Almost as much as the entire population of London."

"To what _end?_ What was the _purpose?"_

"Control. Power. Hate… there's plenty of speculation as to the reasoning behind his actions, but the main point was that Hitler - and his regime - considered the Jews to be an inferior race."

"No. No, there's no way he'd have gotten away with that. Somebody would have interfered, they'd have put an end to it."

"They did, eventually - but it _wasn't_ to save the Jews. The rest of the Muggle world only stepped in when it became clear that their own countries were at risk."

"Granger, what you're saying - it isn't possible. Six million people, that's inconceivable - it's _staggering -"_

"It wasn't inconceivable to the victims, Draco," she said quietly. "What do you suppose will happen if Voldemort takes over?"

But Draco knew a loaded question when he heard one.

"Drawn the parallels, have you?" Hermione asked crisply.

.

* * *

.

Draco pulled off his dragonhide gloves, discarding them on the surface of the Potions work table before he ran his hands down his tired face, scrubbing at sleep-weary eyes with the tips of thin fingers. Tuesday had dawned with a pounding headache and a subtle, but very distracting, prickling in his left arm - compounded by the fact that it was raining, which, for Draco, meant the start of a very miserable day indeed.

As a child, Draco had enjoyed the rain - he'd loved to run out and play in it when his parents weren't keeping a close enough eye on him, mainly to cause them distress, but he'd been a kid then. As an adult, not only was it tedious and quite irritating to get wet, but all of Draco's worst experiences also seemed to happen in poor weather. Thunder clouds almost invariably brought with them a sense of foreboding, and having woken up to the sheets of rain pelting against his dormitory window meant that Draco's nerves were already on edge.

Hermione, on the other hand, apparently _loved_ the rain. She had practically jumped out of bed, gazing out at the blurred landscape as though she'd never witnessed the forces of nature in her entire life, which would have been more curious to him if she wasn't still naked. But she _was_ still naked, and Draco had therefore been distracted enough to disregard that peculiarity and focus instead on the spectacular view of her arse.

" _I love days like this," she'd said softly as she leaned over the window sill, so close to the glass that her breath had fanned out over the pane when she spoke._

 _Draco had snorted in response and then tossed the duvet away from his body._ _"What's good about the rain, Granger?"_

" _It's beautiful to watch, isn't it? Don't be so grumpy, Malfoy," she'd replied, abandoning the embrasure in favor of the bathroom. She paused in the archway and fastened her eyes to his when he didn't immediately follow._ _"Aren't you coming to shower?"_

Yes, Draco _had_ been considerably happier by the time the two of them finally left for breakfast, but his migraine had stubbornly persisted and his Mark had continued to sting. Hermione had been positively chipper, which was both endearing and aggravating to behold: aggravating because Draco was in a foul mood and therefore felt that it was surely an injustice that she was not, and endearing because she was beautiful when she smiled.

But, he reasoned, she also didn't have the same cause to be frustrated as Draco did because she hadn't been awake to see him sit bolt upright in bed the night before, sweating and pale-faced, with the imprint of his Mark searing as he cast frantically around until he realized that he wasn't, in fact, at Malfoy Manor, and that there was no misshapen Dark Lord, no monstrous snake threatening to devour him, no Death Eaters jeering at the prospect of his impending death - that he was actually safe in his own bed at Hogwarts, the bed that he was now sharing with a peacefully oblivious Hermione Granger.

This, Draco had realized, was just one out of a whole host of problems that his subconscious occluding had brought him: his nightmares had returned sevenfold, with unparalleled intensity and a disturbing vividness that made his blood run cold with fear. He hadn't been aware that Occlumency was the reason for their absence, but now that he looked back on it, Draco couldn't remember having dreamt of anything, pleasant or otherwise, in more than a year. The effects of unknowingly blocking his mind ran much deeper than Draco had thought possible and they were still wreaking havoc on his brain as he struggled to maintain a balance - hence his horrific headache that had not yet faded.

And after the sound of his own racing heart had eased into a dull roar, Draco settled back against the headboard of the four-poster bed and looked down at his witch - and she was, undoubtedly, _his_ witch - with something akin to longing.

The truth was that Draco had never felt as close to anyone before, and the sentiment was as troublesome as it was refreshing. To be fair, he hadn't confided in her as often as Draco admitted he probably needed to (that was what lovers were meant to do, wasn't it? Share their secrets and worries and fears?) and certainly less than she deserved, but the fact remained that she was the only person he felt comfortable talking to, and the only person with whom he was content. Draco couldn't ever recall feeling the same way about another person before: everyone in his life had been cold and distant, including his mother and especially his father.

Hermione Granger held no outrageous expectations of him and made no demands. She had _faith_ in him, _believed_ in him… and yet for all that easy companionability, Draco felt very far from her, as though she was merely a reflection in the looking glass, separated by a world of prejudice and never close enough to actually touch.

He had to wonder whether it was truly wise for Hermione to involve herself with him, for Snape's words continued to echo in his mind:

 _...how tragically_ reckless _you are for putting that girl in such a dangerous position... I have seen firsthand what atrocities your father is capable of… the epitome of hatred against Muggleborns…_ she _is the one who shall bear the weight of the consequences…_

There was no question that Draco's father was a bigot, for it was Lucius who had ingrained those same beliefs in his son, even to the point of physically punishing Draco for failing to outshine Hermione Granger in lessons. He had taught Draco to fight for a world where she and others like her existed in a rigid caste system, for a society where Muggleborns were treated like the second-class citizens they supposedly were.

But was Lucius Malfoy really a _danger_ to her, as Snape had so forcefully claimed? Draco knew, to some extent, that his father was a corrupt, vicious, and even inhumane wizard, because he knew - had _seen -_ what Death Eaters got up to, during revels especially. His father was by no means innocent of the horrors inflicted upon Muggles and Mudbloods, and neither was Snape, for that matter - though his professor was very rarely in attendance of such lurid celebrations because of his position. Draco himself was never forced to participate, a request made by his mother because he'd been underage at the time, but he had of course been present, had been made to witness the carnage… but Granger was just a girl, and there had never been someone so _young_ -

And the thought made Draco shudder involuntarily, clutching the duvet in white-knuckled fists as the same gruesome images played across the darkness in front of him, but where the faces of nameless women had been, Hermione's was there instead.

Were there limits for his father? Would the fact that Granger was Draco's choice be a deterrent? Snape didn't think so. Though Draco had promptly occluded those ghastly thoughts from his mind, and though he had known that he'd guarded himself against any further nightmares, Draco hadn't slept for many more hours afterward.

"Late night?" asked Blaise Zabini.

His Potions partner had just returned from leaving a sample of their work with Slughorn to be marked, and Blaise's superior look was infuriating enough for Draco to want to hex the smugness right off his face. But Blaise was one of the few allies Draco had left, and he wasn't eager to be rid of what friendships he could hold on to where other Slytherins were concerned. Draco could only suffer the company of so many Gryffindors, after all, and Blaise had seemed willing enough to forget their heated conversations regarding Granger.

Still, he knew what Blaise was implying, and Draco was determined not to rise to the bait.

"You could say that," he grumbled in return, setting about cleaning off the workspace with his wand.

"And what kept you up all night?"

"Studying," replied Draco. It seemed to be his default answer these days.

"Anatomy?"

Draco did not turn to look at him. "History," he said, which wasn't a lie: Rowena Ravenclaw's early life would definitely fall under that category, even if Hermione Granger _had_ been leaning against his chest without clothes on at the time.

"There's been a lot of gossip in the common room, you know," said Blaise luringly.

"Oh?"

"People are wondering what you and the _Golden Trio_ are getting up to, running through the corridors on the weekends."

Draco snorted. "You expect me to believe that there were Slytherins above ground on a Sunday?"

And when Blaise said nothing, Draco felt the choking grip of anger creep into his throat.

"Are you telling me that little first-year bitch is still trailing me through the castle?" asked Draco, careful to keep the fury from manifesting in his voice.

Blaise shrugged. "It's a hot topic of conversation recently."

And from this, Draco understood that Blaise was not just trying to goad him: he was trying to warn him that he was being followed. Draco wasn't sure whether to be peeved or grateful for it.

"It's nothing anyone needs to be concerned about," Draco lied, hoping that it would be enough to quell Blaise's concealed worry.

"But they _are_ your mates now," Blaise stated, though it sounded closer to a question than anything else.

What to say to that? Potter and Weasley could hardly be considered Draco's _friends,_ and Granger was obviously much more, but people would talk either way. It was nothing less than expected, and if conceding would throw the focus off what they were all _actually_ doing, then so be it. "You know the answer to that," said Draco flatly.

Blaise gave him a calculating look. "Their lot is always up to something."

"So were we," said Draco, grinning.

"Don't be evasive, Malfoy."

And Draco laughed. "'Evasive' is my middle name, Zabini."

But Blaise did not seem to be joking at all. He lowered his voice to a whisper and said, "I can help you, if you need it."

Draco's head whipped around so quickly he thought he could hear his own joint snap into place. Now _that_ was a strangely tempting offer - there was nothing Blaise could do about the diadem, for Draco could never, _ever_ bring him into that sphere of knowledge… but the Slytherin was in a much better position to keep an eye on Theo. It was not a decision he could make on his own, however. As much as Draco truly resented it, he would have to speak to the others first.

He stared into Blaise's serious eyes, searching for deception and ill-will but finding none. Draco was tempted to use Legilimency to ascertain whether Blaise was being honest, but the dark-skinned boy was likely to have some experience with mind-reading and would almost definitely know what Draco was doing. He'd be able to feel Draco seeking entrance, and really, it wasn't the best way to establish trust in any kind of relationship.

"Listen, Blaise -"

"You don't have to do everything on your own, Draco, there are people who _give a fuck_ about you -"

" _Don't,"_ Draco warned.

.

* * *

.

Draco's headache had not eased in the slightest by the time he headed off to Transfiguration. It was _still_ raining, for one thing, and for another, the pain in his temple got worse every time he realized that he had unintentionally occluded a thought. He would hastily bring it back to the surface, testing the subsequent feelings it inspired and the memories associated with it, and the result was something Draco could only describe as sensory overload.

Not for the first time, Draco found himself cursing his Aunt Bellatrix for neglecting to properly train him in the art of Occlumency - though, it may have been unreasonable to hold her accountable for that failure because honestly, the woman was absolutely fucking mental. One thing Draco had resolved within himself, however, was that he was _not_ going to ask Snape for help. He was a natural. He could accomplish it on his own, thanks very much, even if it _was_ making for an absolutely horrific day.

And he had a niggling feeling that it was only going to go south from there.

There was _one_ positive aspect of having Transfiguration after lunch, however: the subject was typically so engaging that there would be no opportunities for Blaise to ask any more damnable questions, and in any case, McGonagall would never allow idle chatter during her lesson. But when he finally strode into the classroom, Professor McGonagall was nowhere to be seen.

The Transfiguration post had evidently been filled by someone Draco didn't recognize - a gorgeous blond woman who was standing in front of her desk with a brilliant, dazzling smile, waiting patiently for the students to file in. Draco was dumbfounded. Surely a woman this young was not qualified to teach, and _surely_ having someone this pretty in charge of a classroom was a risk with so many hormonal teenage boys running around.

"Good afternoon!" she said enthusiastically once everyone had taken their seats. "I'm your new Transfiguration teacher - er, _professor."_

 _Perhaps not that authoritative,_ Draco thought skeptically. It wasn't that the woman was lacking confidence, necessarily, and yet there was something off about her, something strangely familiar… but Draco was sure he'd never seen her before.

"Some would call me a Master Transfigurer," she went on. "Others would probably say that I'm not a master of anything. Professor McGonagall's told me that you lot are pretty well-versed in Human Transfiguration by this point, so in this lesson, we'll see just how advanced you NEWT-level students really are." _Ahem._ "Allow me to demonstrate."

And Draco watched with astonishment as the woman's features began to change, sans wand: her nose elongated slightly, her eyes flashed from blue to a dark shade of twinkling brown, and her blond hair receded into a spiked, vibrant pink.

The classroom erupted into applause, and not even Draco could help but smirk.

"My name is Professor Lupin," said the woman as she beamed delightedly. "But you can also call me Professor Tonks. Either is fine."

The Ravenclaw Patil twin's hand shot immediately into the air. "Professor, are you a Metamorphmagus?"

"Sorry, what's your name?"

"Padma Patil."

"Right, Miss Patil. The answer is yes - really rare, we are."

Ernie Macmillan raised his hand. "Are you related to the other Professor Lupin?"

Tonks smiled widely. "I'm his wife."

Blaise leaned in close to Draco and whispered, "Bit young, isn't she, to be married to him?"

Actually, Draco thought that there was quite another reason why Tonks shouldn't have married Remus Lupin, the werewolf, but now was probably not the time to express that sentiment, especially considering that she was technically Draco's cousin.

"They're magic. They'll be alive for another century, what's fifteen years difference?" he whispered instead.

Blaise shrugged. "I liked her first look better."

Draco had no response to that statement because Tonks was pretty either way. She was descended from the Black's, after all.

"Hang on," said Tonks, eyes roaming curiously over the students. "There are meant to be eighteen of you in this class. Who's missing?"

Furrowing his brow, Draco glanced around, and at the front of the classroom, Potter, Weasley, and Granger all twisted in their seats, worst suspicions confirmed. It only required a cursory inspection before it became obvious who was missing, but the rest of the students merely shifted uncomfortably and averted their gazes.

No one was willing to be the rat.

"Ahh," Tonks realized, grinning. "Well, can't say that I'm surprised that none of you want to snitch. But I've got the list, you know."

She traveled to the other end of her desk and began shuffling around her disorganized mess of parchment until she found her enrollment sheet, then proceeded to call out names in alphabetical order:

"Hannah Abbott…. Lavender Brown…."

One by one, the students responded with either "here" or "present," but Draco knew that Tonks wouldn't make it to the end before she figured it out.

"... Draco Malfoy… Theodore Nott…." She looked up when there was no reply and repeated, "Theodore Nott? No? Ah, well… I'd hate to take points on my first day. Detention it is, I suppose."

Draco watched as Potter and Granger exchanged glances that were full of significance and worry.

The rest of the lesson passed by uneventfully. There was a low hum of conversation as Tonks had them review, in pairs, what they had learned on Human Transfiguration, which had been mostly successful with the exception of the Gryffindor Patil twin accidentally turning Lavender Brown into a hog, which she was then unable to reverse - and Hermione's responding snicker did not go unnoticed by Draco, who was irritated enough as it was without having to look over and watch her work with Michael Corner.

Draco had never had any specific feelings toward the bloke, but Corner was now many types of tossers and wankers in the privacy of Draco's own mind; worse, those thoughts evoked a few very singular emotions, which, in turn, produced an even more intense headache than what Draco had already been experiencing thus far.

It was about halfway through the hour when Draco's Mark began to burn with an agonizing heat, and he had been so caught off guard by it that he'd nearly dropped his wand; it was fortunate for Blaise that he didn't, because he'd been right in the middle of Transfiguring the dark-skinned boy's head at the time. Trying not to show his discomfort, Draco turned his gaze immediately to Potter; the fact that Potter had already been staring at _him_ told Draco everything he needed to know.

When the bell finally rang, Draco all but hopped out of his seat - he needed air, and he needed it _now,_ but, of course, no such thing was going to happen.

"Not so quick, Mister Malfoy!" called Tonks jovially, and Draco swore before turning around to face her.

As expected, Potter, Weasley and Granger had already gathered around the front desk and were bombarding Tonks with questions. Draco didn't see why he needed to be a part of it all, especially when his _fucking arm was burning and he couldn't fucking breathe for it -_ Merlin, he wished it would stop raining. All of their words seemed muffled and distant to him, as though he was hearing it through water -

 _Get a sodding grip,_ Draco told himself sternly, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"What are you doing here?" asked Weasley.

"It's a special favor to Professor McGonagall, no one was willing to take the post, for obvious reasons," said Tonks. "I asked Minerva if I could wait till this lesson to start - wanted to make a bit of a grand entrance - was it good?"

"Brilliant," Potter told her, nodding. "But what about the Auror's office?"

"Well, it _is_ something of a double mission, I'm meant to look after you four as well, but I hadn't been working anyway." She paused, grinning. "I'm pregnant."

" _What?" - "Tonks, that's great!" - "Congratulations!"_

Draco looked awkwardly away.

"When did you find out?" asked Hermione happily.

"You lot have been at school, so you wouldn't have been around to hear - and Remus and I waited, anyway, there's plenty of things that can go wrong because he's a werewolf - but we're almost certain that I'm due to deliver in April."

"Is Lupin excited?"

Tonks cleared her throat as she turned her gaze to Potter. "He's been a bit, well I get the impression he's a bit nervous - but, nevermind," she said, looking back to Granger. "Are you feeling any better, Hermione?"

Granger's brows were knit inquisitively toward one another as she regarded Tonks, but she apparently decided not to intrude. "I'm alright now. Pansy's curses weren't anything Madam Pomfrey and Professor Snape couldn't mend, though the Cruciatus was quite terrifying."

Hermione shuddered and Draco fixed his full attention on her, suddenly furious beyond all reason. He hadn't known Pansy had tortured her… why hadn't Hermione told him?

"It's just been rather difficult catching up with all the lessons I missed," Granger went on. "I wasn't able to go to class all last week. Madam Pomfrey wouldn't release me from the Hospital Wing until my voice had healed completely."

Tonks nodded in understanding. "Don't worry about handing in your Transfiguration work," she said, winking, and Hermione offered her a soft smile. Draco knew that Granger would do the essay anyway. More than likely, she already had. "Oh, sorry, Malfoy, I forgot about you."

Draco rolled his eyes in annoyance as Tonks dug into the pocket of her robes and extracted a sealed envelope. He recognized the flowing script instantly.

"This is from your mum," said Tonks, handing it to him. "Listen, your parents aren't allowed to send or receive any mail, but Ginny's told me she'll be happy to smuggle a letter to your parents if you send it with Hedwig."

So taken aback was Draco by this abrupt kindness that he nearly forgot to be angry at the fact that everyone other than his parents were permitted to write to and from Grimmauld Place. He was still staring dumbly down at the envelope when Granger pulled hard on his elbow, wearing an impatient expression.

"Oh - right," Draco said grudgingly. "Thanks, Tonks."

"Don't mention it," the pink-haired witch replied. "You'd better be off, then, I don't need any rubbish from the other teachers because you lot were late to your next lesson -"

But Tonks never finished that statement, for the door to the Transfiguration classroom swung open, and the students spun around to see that Professor McGonagall was striding quickly in, looking harried and fraught with tension as her emerald-green robes danced around her ankles.

"Professor, has something happened?" asked Potter, turning to face her fully - and in concert, the other three turned with him.

"You have company," said McGonagall tersely.

As though on cue, the Minister of Magic swept into the room in the manner of a wizard-on-business, limping slightly as he approached them. Draco had never met the man in person, but Rufus Scrimgeour held the same air of confidence he seemed to carry in the pictures Draco had seen of him in the _Daily Prophet._

Instinctively, Draco shoved the envelope into his pocket: he wasn't sure how the Minister would react if Draco had gotten illegal mail from his parents, but he needn't have worried, because Scrimgeour did not appear to have noticed at all.

"I have urgent matters to discuss with the four of you," said Scrimgeour in a voice that was both rough and authoritative.

Potter, Weasley, Granger, and Draco all shared confused glances with one another, all wondering what could possibly be so very urgent that the Minister of Magic himself would come to Hogwarts to speak with them about it; strangely, Potter's own countenance seemed to be teetering somewhere between resentment and hostility. Draco guessed that this wasn't his first run-in with the Minister and that whichever conversations Potter and Scrimgeour had shared in the past were not at all friendly.

"With us?" Potter asked. "All _four_ of us?"

"All four of you," the Minister confirmed, and as his eyes darted between the students, they lingered a bit on Draco before flicking down to the blond wizard's left arm as though he could see the Dark Mark hidden there beneath Draco's school robes. Finally, Scrimgeour addressed Tonks, "Have you lessons during the next class period, or is this classroom free to use for a private conversation?"

"I - well, yes, sir, I have a lesson." Her gaze drifted questioningly to the Headmistress. "But I'm sure it can be canceled if you need the room."

"Minister," interrupted McGonagall. "I'm sure my own office is suitable -"

But Scrimgeour shook his head. "That won't be necessary, Professor." He swung an arm in the direction of the door. "An empty classroom shall suffice. No, Minerva, do not follow," he added to McGonagall, who didn't seem willing to let the students out of her sight.

Tentatively, they led him through the entrance, careful to avoid each other's eyes in case the Minister derived some sort of meaning from their glances. They hadn't made it very far down the corridor before Scrimgeour pushed open an unassuming-looking door. "This will do."

Draco feared it would be a broom cupboard, but it turned out to be an unused classroom in which the chairs had been flipped over on top of the tables; using his wand, the Minister levitated five of them, placing four side-by-side and one facing the opposite direction, then nodded his head, indicating for the students to sit. Once they had, the Minister took the seat across from them and cleared his throat.

"Sorry to interrupt your lessons," he said.

"Ron and I haven't got lessons next period, actually," Potter responded. "But I don't see what that has to do with what you're here to tell us."

Hermione looked at him with utter astonishment, but Scrimgeour did not seem to be concerned with Potter's impertinence. Instead, the Minister turned his shrewd eyes on Hermione and Draco.

"And which subject are the pair of you missing?"

Draco looked briefly at Hermione, who said, "Ancient Runes."

"Ah," Scrimgeour affirmed, as though this was exactly the answer he'd wanted to hear. He looked over them appraisingly. "I gather the four of you do not know why I have come."

Potter looked incredibly annoyed while the rest of them shook their heads.

"You did not know, I take it, that the late Professor Dumbledore included you in his will?"

"His _will?"_ Potter echoed incredulously.

"Dumbledore left _all_ of us something?" asked Ron. "Malfoy included?"

Hermione was suddenly no longer reticent. She had taken on that fierce expression Draco so often admired her for, her mind traveling in great leaps and bounds as she pounced upon an issue that her two friends were quite obviously unaware of.

"You confiscated what Dumbledore left us!" she said angrily. "You had no right -"

Scrimgeour cut her off. "The laws regarding such things are quite clear, Miss Granger."

"Yes, they are!" Hermione agreed. "The Ministry had absolutely no evidence suggesting that Dumbledore had possession of _any_ Dark Artifacts, and nevermind that he might be trying to pass them to a handful of teenagers!"

Next to her, Potter was shaking with rage. "I suppose you haven't found anything dodgy about them, so you're finally handing them over?"

Draco gave a short laugh as he stared at the Minister. "No, it's because he _has_ to. He'd likely keep them for himself if that law didn't have a thirty-one-day cap on it."

"That's right," said Scrimgeour coldly. "My actions are perfectly legal under the -"

"Well, get on with it then -"

"You will mind your tongue, Potter," Scrimgeour interrupted. "Dumbledore's not here to protect you anymore, and you would do well to remember it."

The two then engaged in a tense staring contest, which Potter won. Looking away from Potter's accusatory eyes, Scrimgeour continued as though there had been no interruption at all.

"Dumbledore made no bequests to another witch or wizard other than his own brother, Aberforth. Therefore, I find it out of the ordinary that he would include four teenagers, especially the two of you -" he looked at Hermione and Weasley. " - to whom he had no obvious attachment."

"W-well," Weasley stammered, then jerked his head toward Draco. "He didn't have an attachment to Malfoy either."

But Draco knew before the Minister could answer that this was not precisely true.

"On the contrary, Mister Weasley," said Scrimgeour. "Albus Dumbledore's relationship with Mister Malfoy is quite well-documented. It was only through his testimony that this young Death Eater avoided imprisonment for his crimes."

"I'm not a Death Eater," Draco bit out.

"Dumbledore said the same of your father when he requested that Lucius Malfoy be released from Azkaban, but we both know this to be false."

Draco's blood boiled but he chose to ignore this statement, for the Minister had just withdrawn a very official-looking scroll from what appeared to be a moleskin pouch. Without waiting for a response, Scrimgeour unrolled the parchment and cleared his throat:

"' _The Last Will and Testament of Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore…'"_ his yellowish eyes darted down the looping handwriting until he found the first bequest. _"'To Ronald Bilius Weasley, I leave my Deluminator, in the hope that he will remember me when he uses it."_

From the same moleskin pouch, Scrimgeour withdrew a thin, silver object that Draco did not recognize and handed it to Weasley, who seemed to be as confused as Draco was. In fact, the only person who seemed to know exactly what the 'Deluminator' would do was Potter, who was looking back and forth between the object and Scrimgeour suspiciously. Weasley, too, glanced over at the Minister, who nodded as though encouraging the boy to use it; with a small _click,_ Weasley opened the Deluminator and pressed down on its silvery button - and all the lights in the room rushed immediately toward it, appearing to bury themselves within its confines.

"Cool," said Weasley simply, clicking on the button again so that the lights could return to their rightful places. Once the room was bright again, Scrimgeour narrowed his eyes.

"Don't you find it strange that Dumbledore would have bestowed upon you such a rare object?"

Ron shrugged. "Doesn't seem to do anything especially rare to me."

Scrimgeour gave a barely-audible _hmph_ and then continued:

"' _To Miss Hermione Jean Granger, I leave my copy of_ The Tales of Beedle the Bard, _in the hope that she will find it entertaining and instructive.'"_

The Minister removed a very age-worn book and handed it to Hermione, who seemed to be on the verge of tears as she accepted it. All three boys leaned in closely in order to get a good look, and Draco saw why Scrimgeour had been so interested to learn that he and Hermione's next lesson would be Ancient Runes: it was a sodding _first edition,_ and the runes that were printed upon its surface looked older and more cryptic than anything Draco had ever dealt with in class.

"Why do you believe Dumbledore would have left you something of this… _nature?"_

"He knew she likes books," said Potter defensively.

"I was not addressing you, Mister Potter," Scrimgeour replied dismissively, and his eyes never left the top of Hermione's bushy head as she gazed down at the book. "Do you maintain, Miss Granger, that you and Dumbledore never discussed any sort of secret codes or ciphers?"

" _This_ is why you didn't want to use the Headmistress' office?" Potter realized. "You wanted to interrogate us without Dumbledore's portrait there to defend himself!"

"I was not addressing you," Scrimgeour repeated. "Miss Granger, the question?"

And when Hermione looked up, she was crying. "No, I didn't!"

"Can't you see that you're upsetting her?" asked Draco wildly, and the other two boys' heads spun around to face him, both looking properly astounded. _Fuck,_ Draco thought, almost wincing at his own recklessness.

"Very well," said Scrimgeour, directing his attention back to the will. _"To Harry James Potter, I leave the Snitch he caught in his first Quidditch match at Hogwarts, as a reminder of the rewards of perseverance and skill."_

Potter reluctantly tore his eyes away from Draco, but Weasley continued to stare with skeptically tapered eyes; Draco sneered at him before focusing back on the Minister, who was holding a familiar golden ball between his thumb and forefinger. In all regards, the Snitch did not look special or unique in any sort of way, but Scrimgeour did not seem to agree.

"Why would Dumbledore have left you this Snitch?"

"For perseverance and skill, _obviously!"_ Hermione burst out.

"I was not addressing you, Miss Granger," said the Minister calmly. "Potter?"

Harry snorted, and it was clear that the boy's already thin patience was fraying around the edges. "What she said."

"Were you aware, Mister Potter, that Snitches have flesh memories?" Scrimgeour asked quietly. No one answered.

All four of them eyed the Snitch as though it was about to do something spectacular as the Minister slowly extended his hand toward Potter, whose bright green eyes showed obvious apprehension when he reached forward to take it. He could hear Hermione's breath hitch as soon as Potter's fingers closed around the tiny, golden ball, but to all the students' immense relief, nothing happened; Scrimgeour's shoulders sagged with disappointment, and Potter gave a hollow laugh.

"Was it everything you expected, Minister?"

"Don't mock me, boy," said Scrimgeour. He adjusted his robes and then appeared to regain his footing, as though straightening his clothes had put him back in control of the conversation. "Dumbledore left _you_ a second bequest, Potter. He left you the Sword of Gryffindor."

Potter's eyes darted around Scrimgeour's form, apparently searching for a sword-shaped lump in the Minister's robes. "Well, where's it at, then?"

"The Sword of Gryffindor was not Dumbledore's to give away. It is an important historical artifact and as such, it belongs -"

"To _Harry!"_ said Hermione emphatically, her eyes still red-rimmed although she had stopped crying. "It belongs to Harry. It came to him when he had need of it -"

"The Sword may present itself to any worthy Gryffindor, Miss Granger. It does not belong to Mister Potter exclusively -"

"Nor does it belong to the Ministry!" she argued.

"The Ministry is not in possession of the Sword of Gryffindor. It is missing," he denied, then leaned forward. "In fact, I was hoping that you, Mister Potter, would know of its whereabouts."

"If the Ministry doesn't even know where it is, why would we?" asked Potter.

"Dumbledore would hardly have bequeathed you the Sword of Gryffindor if he, himself, did not know where it was, Mister Potter, which begs the question: where might Dumbledore have hidden it?"

"If I did know where it was, I wouldn't tell you," said Potter, and even Draco had to admire his callousness in the face of a man who would probably toss him in Azkaban if there was a valid reason to do it. "It's ironic that you come to us asking questions and yet you refuse to answer any of ours."

Scrimgeour ignored him. "Mister Malfoy, as you might have guessed, you were not included in the original copy of Albus Dumbledore's will. Your bequest was made as an addendum."

Draco watched him intently and said nothing. Honestly, he had no idea what sort of reaction the Minister would have expected of him, anyway.

Scrimgeour read aloud:

"' _To Draco Lucius Malfoy, I leave my own memories, in the hope that he will remember the importance of virtue and strong moral fiber."_

Draco could feel the pressure of his own elevated heart rate pounding in his ears. _Virtue and strong moral fiber…_ Dumbledore had said those words to him before. _My own memories…_

Scrimgeour reached into the pouch and revealed a stoppered bottle, the silvery contents of which swirled tempestuously as though eager to be viewed. The bottle was slightly larger than the slim vials which were typically used to store such things and the corked stopper was sealed with what looked like wax.

 _My own memories…_ but of what use could these be to Draco, and why would Dumbledore have wanted him, of all people, to have them?

As soon as the bottle left the Minister's hand and was passed to Draco, the wax burned away like so much kindling, and he looked up to see that Scrimgeour's eyes were full of wonder and greed. Draco could tell that he was itching to have them, and that, despite the Ministry's best efforts, the bottle would not have opened for anyone other than himself.

"Why," Scrimgeour said slowly. "Would Dumbledore have left you his own memories, Mister Malfoy? What is in Dumbledore's past that he would have desired you to see?"

"Dunno," Draco responded, curling his fingers protectively over the bottle. "I suppose I won't know until I view them, will I?"

"You will hand them over at once!" Scrimgeour demanded, jumping to his feet.

It was the wrong move. Potter, Weasley and Draco all exploded out of their chairs in an instant, and Hermione, too, seemed prepared to intervene should it become necessary, for she was perched on the edge of her seat, looking frightened but determined.

"Don't do it, Malfoy," Potter warned.

Draco snorted. "What do you take me for, Potter?"

"The Ministry were unable to break the seal," Scrimgeour growled. "The memories are therefore the property _of_ the Ministry now that they are able to be reviewed!"

"They're not!" Hermione fired back. "They're the property of _Draco Malfoy,_ which is clearly stated in the will, and furthermore, your thirty-one days are up. If Draco chooses not to share them with the Ministry, then he's well within his rights to deny you!"

Scrimgeour did not appear to have an answer to this. Instead, he took Draco roughly by the arm and hauled him closer and the two men were suddenly toe-to-toe. It was all Draco could do not to push Scrimgeour away; actually, what he _wanted_ to do was punch him, but even the smallest retaliation would surely have consequences. It would be the word of four teenagers with questionable rap-sheets against the Minister of Magic - with no witnesses, the odds were not in their favor.

"I'll have your father back in Azkaban faster than you can say 'Quidditch!'" Scrimgeour threatened.

A stern voice sounded from the entrance of the room, and it was loud and booming and feminine and authoritative. "I'm afraid I must ask you to unhand my student, Minister." All heads turned to see that Professor McGonagall was standing at the front of the classroom, looking more furious than Draco had ever seen her. "Lucius Malfoy is under the protection of the Order of the Phoenix, and at the behest of Albus Dumbledore is undergoing a mission that is vital to the downfall of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

Scrimgeour gave Draco one last glare before relinquishing his hold and taking a step back. " _Lucius Malfoy_ is a convicted Death Eater, and his freedom was granted under the condition of absolute and unchallenged cooperation." He pointed at Draco with one imperious finger. " _This_ boy is not cooperating."

"With all due respect, Minister Scrimgeour, that _boy_ is not Lucius Malfoy, but his son. The days when children were held responsible for the actions of their parents, and vice versa, are long since gone," McGonagall countered. "Unless you wish for me to testify in front of the Wizengamot, I would advise you to stand down."

"Your position as Head of this school is not as secure as you seem to believe it is," said Scrimgeour. "You can be replaced."

McGonagall's lips thinned to a barely-visible line and she raised her chin defiantly. "I daresay the Wizengamot shan't agree with you," she said. "Nor would they condone your underhanded tactics."

Scrimgeour emitted a low sort of noise that sounded rather like a growl. "You are forgetting the ultimate goal, Harry Potter. You seem to believe that we are on opposite sides, yet we share a common enemy."

"And _you_ seem to believe that we'd be willing to side with you, even though your interests are clearly for yourself, and yourself only," said Potter icily. "If _this_ is what you're wasting your time on, combing through the contents of a dead wizard's will when you ought to be out stopping a war, then our faith is better placed elsewhere."

Scrimgeour stared around the room, meeting each person's eyes in turn, before apparently deciding that this argument was not to be won. He sneered at Potter and said, "This won't be the last you hear of me. Minerva, there will be no need for you to escort me out."

The Minister limped out of the room and vanished from sight.

"Famous last words," Weasley quipped.

Hermione laughed nervously and finally got to her feet; her hands were shaking as she bit down on her lower lip, and Draco had to look swiftly away from the entirely-too-enticing sight and focus instead on McGonagall, who appeared to be waiting for an explanation.

"He finally gave us what Dumbledore left us in his will," said Potter promptly. "Did you know the Ministry had kept them, Professor?"

"Albus mentioned it to me. There was nothing for it, however. It was out of my hands, as you well know."

"Professor," Draco ventured, realizing that he owed her some measure of gratitude. Truthfully, he could not imagine what would have possessed her to come to his defense, or for that matter, tell such an outrageous lie about his father, who was most definitely _not_ on a mission for the Order. "Thank you."

"It is what Dumbledore would have wanted," she told him, though she looked understandably conflicted; Draco had never really earned her trust, after all. "And I'll not have Rufus Scrimgeour manhandling my students, regardless of his position."

Hermione tugged on the sleeve of Potter's robes.

"Professor McGonagall," he said. "Dumbledore left me the Sword of Gryffindor. Scrimgeour said it was missing…"

"Did he, now?" she asked, then nodded slowly in understanding. "That is a matter you shall have to take up with him in person, Mister Potter. If you would like to see him, you need only ask. Frankly, I am surprised that you have not sought him out before now."

"Actually," said Potter, looking meaningfully toward Draco. "I think Malfoy needs to use your office first."

Draco glanced down at the bottle of memories. He'd almost forgotten what the entire scuffle had been about in the first place. He held it up for McGonagall to see, half-expecting her to demand to accompany him to the Pensieve. But she did not.

"Very well. You know the password, Mister Malfoy."

.

* * *

.

The Headmistress' office was nothing like Draco remembered it. The last time he had been there was more than a month ago, on the evening of Dumbledore's death. The circular room seemed forlorn, and it was not only because he was alone: there were no curious instruments to be seen, none of the effects that had always made the office so warm and inviting as it had when Dumbledore was the one to occupy it. Rather, it was spartan and practical, and the only items that gave away any of McGonagall's characteristics were the familiar tin of biscuits on her desk and the tea set placed on top of one of the spindly tables, where the pot was still steaming with what must have been perpetual heat.

Draco traveled to the cabinet where he knew the Pensieve would still be waiting for him before removing the large, stone basin and setting it on the table. He gazed apprehensively into its swirling depths, glancing up to Professor Dumbledore's portrait as he did. The late headmaster appeared to be snoozing happily with his hands folded contentedly in his lap, and his soft snores gave no legitimacy to the world that was falling apart around them all.

Draco wished that the portrait was awake, wished that he could speak to the wizard who had done so much for him even though he had never deserved it… to ask him what to expect, what to _do…_

Draco turned his gaze back to the Pensieve and resolutely unstoppered the bottle, watching as the silvery substance drifted down into the basin and then churned turbulently within it. With one last hopeful look toward the portrait, who had not woken in the few seconds since he had last checked, Draco pulled in a fortifying breath and dipped his head into the Pensieve.

 _The first sensation Draco had was one of falling, of speeding uncontrollably toward the ground until his feet found purchase on the wooden floor of the Astronomy Tower. The scene resolved itself and Draco realized that the first memory was one that included himself - why Dumbledore saw fit to remind him of this, he did not know._

 _There were only three people visible: Dumbledore, Snape, and Draco himself, although he knew now that Potter was waiting only a few feet below them, sentient but unable to move. The Death Eaters would be running rampant in the castle now but would never make it to the Astronomy Tower because they would not have known where he was. They would not have known that it was all to come to end here - only Snape had been quick enough to figure it out, a blessing which Draco would later be unspeakably grateful for._

 _A disarmed Albus Dumbledore was pleading with Draco, but not for his own life: the Headmaster was asking Draco to reconsider, trying to help him even when it was clear that Draco was beyond care._

" _I can help you Draco," said Dumbledore quietly._

" _You can't!" memory Draco exclaimed, his wand shaking with the tremors of his hand. He hadn't known then how utterly terrified he had looked in that moment, his face pulled tight with fear while tears ran unchecked down his own pale face. "No one can help me - don't you understand? I have to do this - I_ have _to. I have to kill you -" sob. "Or he's gonna kill me! He'll kill my whole family!"_

 _Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "There is always help at Hogwarts for those who are brave enough to seek it," came his melancholy voice. "I can offer you and your mother the highest protection."_

 _It was this statement, he remembered, that had caused memory-Draco to falter, evident in the fractional lowering of his wand as he began to lose his resolve. "She's at Malfoy Manor, you'll never get to her in time. He'll kill her!"_

" _You must trust me, Draco. I will see to it that she is safe."_

 _Memory-Draco's lip trembled and the hawthorn wand dropped a bit further. "What about my father?" he demanded. "_ He _isn't safe - the Dark Lord will find him, he'll stop at nothing -"_

 _Dumbledore seemed to take a moment to consider. "I believe I can offer Lucius Malfoy the same protection."_

"You believe?!" _Draco echoed angrily. "You_ believe _you can help him?"_

" _Let us speak candidly, Draco," said Dumbledore. "You have already disarmed me. I am an old, tired man, considerably weakened and at your absolute mercy. You have had ample opportunity to kill me. If you have not yet found it within yourself to commit murder, a few more moments shall not reveal the urge._

" _You stand at a crossroads, Draco. You are faced with options which you had not expected to be open to you: you can fail to kill me now and your family shall suffer the consequences, or you can accept my help and take the chance that they may live. A leap of faith."_

 _Draco raised his weapon and jabbed it ineffectually at the Headmaster, opening his mouth to say a curse that would never come. After a few seconds, memory-Draco dropped two wands at Dumbledore's feet and then sank to his knees, shoulders convulsing violently as the older wizard turned to Snape._

 _It was done. Memory-Draco had surrendered._

" _Severus, you will warn Narcissa to flee Malfoy Manor before you rejoin the other Death Eaters," Dumbledore commanded. "You will tell them that Draco and I are gone, and you will make the urgent demand that they return in order to apprehend her before it is too late."_

" _You would have me use my own Patronus?"_

" _Tom will never suspect that you are capable of casting one, Severus. Do as I say."_

"Expecto Patronum."

 _And a brilliantly shining doe burst from Snape's wand. The wizard stepped forward and directed it to take Dumbledore's message and, once it had recorded the Headmaster's voice, the Patronus leaped through the window and was gone._

 _Still shaking, memory-Draco looked over at Snape, completely and utterly stunned. "You - you really are a traitor!"_

 _Snape looked down at the quivering mess of his student impassively. "As are you, Draco."_

" _Severus," Dumbledore prompted. "Go."_

 _The Headmaster reached forward and extended a wizened hand toward memory-Draco, but the scene dissolved, leaving the real-life-Draco's head spinning with confusion - he could not think why Dumbledore would want him to see this, he had_ been _there when it happened - but there was no time to waste pondering it, for he was suddenly back in the Headmaster's office, no longer on the Astronomy tower and only a short time after the original events had unfolded._

 _Potter had only recently been dismissed from the room with the instructions to gather the other students who would be returning to Grimmauld Place, leaving Draco and the Dumbledore alone in the circular tower, seated on opposing sides of the Headmaster's ornate desk_

 _Memory-Draco looked ashen, as though all the blood had drained completely from his face, still trembling as he stared vacantly out the window._

" _Professor, my mum -"_

" _Will no doubt already have escaped, Draco. There is nothing you can do to help her. Either she has heeded my warning and fled, or she has elected to stay and will have been killed."_

 _The words did not comfort memory-Draco. But they had not been intended to._

" _Your fears are entirely justified," Dumbledore continued. "But it is from them you have drawn courage."_

" _Courage," Draco repeated skeptically. "My mother will think I'm a coward."_

" _Ah, but your mother never wanted this fate for you. It was she who pleaded with Professor Snape to assist you, she was the one who implored him to make the Unbreakable Vow so that he would protect you. If Narcissa had her way, she would have parted with this lifestyle long ago, before her only son was made to sacrifice his own life to take the Dark Mark. It is not what she desired."_

 _Memory-Draco glanced up, looking shocked._

" _My mother? But I thought - but it was my aunt Bellatrix that asked Snape -"_

 _Dumbledore shook his head. "It was not," he objected, observing memory Draco with elbows propped on the arms of his chair and his long fingers steepled against one another. "You believe your decision to be foolish."_

 _Memory-Draco shrugged uncomfortably. "Not necessarily. If I'm going to be murdered either way, I may as well go out trying to do something good…" He cast his eyes to the floor. "For once."_

 _The Headmaster smiled calmly, an action that Draco had not seen the first time around. "You have not disappointed my hopes for you, Draco. You are more capable of redemption than you assume."_

 _At this, memory Draco raised his head, looking so vulnerable that real-life-Draco wanted to smack himself. Never had he seen so many emotions so obvious on his own face._

" _Professor… how can you believe redemption is possible for me? That forgiveness is_ possible _for someone like me?"_

" _Worse wizards than you have achieved it, Draco. Nearly everyone has a past. You were born into a family whose values were sorely misplaced. I cannot hold it against you that you believed those values without question - but your birth is of no issue. Your actions are what shall decide your fate."_

" _Professor, I -" Memory-Draco swallowed, and he remembered that he had been fending off another bout of tears at the time. "I want to help - I can help. I can change."_

" _There is still much to accomplish if you are to reach such an end. However, you have made the first and most important step toward this goal. The journey shall not be easy, my boy, but the reward is worth the toil… this is, for lack of a better description, the beginning of your revival. Your_ resurrection _, if you will." And the Headmaster gestured to the magnificent bird to his left. "Do you know what sort of creature this is, Draco?"_

" _It's a Phoenix."_

 _Dumbledore nodded. "As you have no doubt learned in your lessons, Phoenixes live forever. Beautiful animals, are they not?"_

" _I suppose."_

" _They are rebirthed from ash, from the final ruin of their lives. You, too, can be rebirthed from ruin."_

 _Draco shook his head. "Forgive me, sir, but the analogy doesn't fit. Phoenixes are beautiful before they die."_

 _Dumbledore only smiled and pushed a bit of parchment toward memory-Draco, who took it and read silently:_ The Headquarters of the Order of the Phoenix can be found at number twelve, Grimmauld Place, London.

 _The office faded, spinning away into nothing and then reforming in what seemed to be the middle of nowhere. It was so dark Draco could hardly see in front of his face, but the thin form of Albus Dumbledore swept suddenly into view, followed closely by the Auror, Kingsley Shacklebolt. The two wizards rushed ahead, wands held out in front them as they traveled along a wooded path. Draco was barely quick enough to keep pace with them, hurrying to trail behind and straining to hear their words._

" _Albus, she cannot be trusted. The Malfoy boy cannot be trusted!" Shacklebolt was insisting, and Draco realized belatedly that this was a memory that he himself was not a part of._

" _We shall take the risk, Kingsley," said Dumbledore. "There is no other way."_

" _I beg you to reconsider!"_

 _But Dumbledore did not answer. They had come to a clearing, and Draco was shocked to see that his own mother was standing in the middle of it, turning on the spot with her own wand held aloft - and at the wizards' entrance, she wheeled quickly around to face them._

" _Narcissa Malfoy, have you come alone?" demanded Dumbledore._

" _I - Dumbledore! Yes, I am alone," she assured him but did not lower her wand._

 _Neither did Dumbledore._

" _Prove your identity. What is the last request you made of me before your graduation from Hogwarts?"_

" _I asked that you pass several thousand Galleons to the family of Mathilda Greene on my behalf," she answered immediately, and Dumbledore, seeming satisfied, stowed his wand in the pocket of his robes, though Shacklebolt kept his own weapon trained on the very distraught-looking witch. "Professor, Albus - the Patronus. To whom does it belong? It spoke with your voice, but it is not your own."_

" _That is a secret which I am not at liberty to reveal, Narcissa," Dumbledore told her, stepping further into the clearing. "I trust you know by now what your son has chosen."_

" _Where is he?" asked Narcissa, wringing her hands. "Where is Draco?"_

" _You shall know in good time," said Dumbledore evasively. "Your son has forsaken the Dark Lord. Do you hold objections to his decision?"_

" _No!" Narcissa gasped. "No, I - never! I shall never stand against him!"_

" _Shall Lucius say the same?"_

" _I… you know that I cannot speak for him, Albus."_

" _I have promised Draco that I would protect his father. You know what this entails."_

" _You seek to have him released from Azkaban?"_

" _You do not think it would be wise?"_

 _Narcissa's mouth opened and closed soundlessly. "I cannot say. I should like to think he would stand with his own son."_

" _And if he does not? Should Lucius choose to turn his back on his family, do I have your word that you, Narcissa Malfoy, will do what is necessary to stop him? Do you possess the strength of will to make that decision?"_

 _Narcissa seemed hesitant. "Perhaps it is better to leave my husband where he is."_

 _Draco was shocked - not even Lucius' wife believed the best of him... which was not even near as surprising as the fact that Albus Dumbledore had appealed for Lucius' release from Azkaban despite it. And more to the fucking point, who the hell was Mathilda Greene? Greene was not a wizarding name, not one that he had ever heard of, anyway. Thousands of Galleons was a lot of sodding money - what had Mathilda Greene done to deserve it… or, what had been done to her that she needed such outrageously exorbitant compensation?_

" _I cannot oblige you, Narcissa," Dumbledore said somberly. "I vowed to ensure that you and Lucius Malfoy were protected. You and I both know that the time is coming very soon when Azkaban will be compromised."_

 _Narcissa pulled in a deep breath and nodded. "I shall do whatever is necessary."_

" _Your word, Narcissa!"_

 _And Narcissa Malfoy, the very image of pureblood aristocracy, dropped to her knees in the middle of the clearing and begged._

" _Albus, I swear! I'll make the Unbreakable Vow, if you require it of me -"_

" _Enough," said Dumbledore. "The Order of the Phoenix does not tie its members' fate to certain death."_

" _You have my word," she said desperately. "I will do anything for Draco -_ anything, _I will give my own life for his safety."_

" _You must understand, Narcissa, that your son has not merely chosen to part ways with the Dark side. I cannot protect him should he follow a path that leads him closer to peril."_

 _"Is there..._ is _there no hope for my son's protection?"_

" _There is hope yet, Narcissa, but he shan't be immune. I can offer him sanctuary, but already his values are changing…"_

 _The scene started to dissolve again, and Draco rushed forward, reached for his mother although he knew that he was powerless to touch her, knew that she was merely a memory but aching to wrap his arms around her all the same… to assure her that he was okay, that he would be fine…_

 _He was in his own room at Grimmauld Place, the night before he and the others would board the Hogwarts Express. Memory-Draco looked sullen and resentful as he sat in the dimly-lit space, arms crossed as he glowered at Dumbledore._

 _In retrospect, Draco wasn't sure how he could have been so ungrateful to be where he was at._

" _These Horcruxes," Draco began. "How are we to find them if we haven't even a clue of what they are?"_

" _We are aware of what several of them are likely to be," Dumbledore responded. "However, now is not the time or place to discuss them further. Miss Granger will explain in the next few days. I am sure they will be hesitant, at first, to include you, but your true intentions will soon become evident. Given time, they will accept you."_

" _Professor, I can't - I can't share a dorm with her. I can't. She hates me as much as I hate her."_

" _You have no choice in the matter."_

" _But she's - Merlin, she's insufferable! Know-it-all, swotty as they come, stuck-up, holier-than-thou. Not to mention a sodding Mudblood -"_

" _Do not use that word! We have discussed this at length, my boy. If you cannot see past your own false prejudices, you shall not be of use to the Order in this war."_

" _Sir, I_ want _to fight the war. I have my own reasons to see the Dark Lord defeated."_

" _You ought to call him by his name, Draco. Fear of the name -"_

" _Only increases fear of the thing itself. I know, but that's beside the point, Professor. Granger is -"_

" _She is living proof that everything you've been raised to believe is false. You have been bred to scorn those of her heritage, and yet she is an intelligent and highly-capable witch. Indeed, she has many qualities that are a match to your own."_

 _Memory-Draco snorted. "I wouldn't say she matches me -"_

" _And you would be wrong."_

" _Professor,_ please, _don't make me live with her."_

" _Your housemates shall not welcome you. You will be in even greater danger should you return to the dungeons."_

" _I can handle it - I'm not afraid! Anything but that, anyone but_ her…."

 _The room spun again, and Draco was back in the Headmaster's office only a few days later, sitting petulantly in one of the armchairs in front of Dumbledore's desk, running a hand through his hair and leaving behind an unruly mess in its wake._

" _None of them want me involved," said memory-Draco angrily, and real-life Draco knew that this was the day that he and the others had viewed Tom Riddle's memories. Memory-Draco had beaten them to the office, but in a matter of moments, Hermione, Potter, and Weasley would walk through the door and glare suspiciously at him, as though he, Draco, was less than the dirt on the bottom of their shoes._

" _It is my belief that they will come around," Dumbledore said peacefully._

" _They won't - Granger won't. If you'd been there, if you'd seen the way she reacted in the dorm…" memory Draco trailed off, shaking his head. "You just have no clue, you can't understand, professor. She hates me."_

" _And do you return the sentiment?"_

 _Memory Draco let out a frustrated growl. "Yes! It's hard not to when she's fighting me at every turn, always suspicious as all hell, questioning my loyalties -"_

" _And forcing you to question your prejudices?"_

" _I - no!"_

 _But Dumbledore only smiled and settled back into his high-backed chair, folding his hands across his lap. "You are not being honest, Draco."_

" _Not being_ honest? _Professor, she's still a Mudblood," memory Draco said stubbornly._

" _You shall not use that word in this office, Draco. Your resolution is waning, my boy. It is exactly as I expected: Hermione Granger is a positive influence on you."_

" _She's repulsive!"_

" _She is of unshakeable virtue and strong moral fiber," said Dumbledore shrewdly. "These are the qualities you seek to possess, are they not?"_

 _Memory-Draco had no answer, but it turned out not to matter, for there was a sharp rap on the door._

" _Ah, that will be the others. Come in!"_

 _The door swung open and the Gryffindors trickled in, but the scene dissolved, and what came next was not what at all what Draco had expected._

 _He was in the middle of a raging battle, and was taken so off-guard by the sudden change in scenery that he had fallen to the ground, scampering out of the way as curses and the blazing lights of violent spells were passed back and forth between two wizards._

 _One, he recognized as a much younger Albus Dumbledore, whose hair was still a rich, auburn brown and whose beard fell no further than the center of his neck - but Dumbledore's appearance was not what drew Draco's unwavering focus; it was the fury and determination in the wizard's face, the lethal efficacy of his dueling, the unparalleled ferocity of his speed as he met his opponent spell-for-spell. Draco looked wildly to the other end of the makeshift battlefield and saw a handsome, blond wizard whom Draco recognized only from books: it was Gellert Grindelwald, and the man was attacking with all his might, elegant features twisting dangerously as he exchanged one deadly curse after the next._

 _Draco jumped to his feet, watching in awe as two of the greatest wizards of all time faced off in a duel that would go down in history books…_

 _But why?_

 _What was the purpose of Dumbledore showing him this memory, and for the love of Merlin, why hadn't he at least given him the_ entire _battle? It was obvious that the duel was coming to a close, for Grindelwald was very clearly struggling to maintain his lead._

 _A vast, powerful tidal wave erupted from Dumbledore's end, which was soon vanished by Grindelwald and replaced by a barrage of conjured arrows that sailed in the opposite direction; a flick of Dumbledore's wand and their momentum was suspended, hanging harmlessly inert in the middle of the air, before turning against their creator and firing toward him. Grindelwald's Shield Charm was quicker, however, and the arrows bounced away from the barrier with a soft shimmer upon impact, falling pointlessly to the ground._

 _Grindelwald countered with the most vicious Fiendfyre Draco had ever seen. From the conflagration erupted the terrifying forms of serpents - nay, dragons - monstrous lions and winged horses, all charging toward the young Dumbledore with fearsome accuracy. Draco never knew that there was a counter to such a formidable and all-encompassing spell, yet Dumbledore only arced his wand through the air and the flames disappeared in a puff of innocuous smoke. Recovering, Grindelwald fired what Draco instantly recognized as a gruesome Entrail-Expelling Curse, but Dumbledore parried it so effectively that it rebounded against Grindelwald's_ Protego -

 _But it only took a moment of Grindelwald's uncertainty, and Dumbledore had spun, casting a Reductor so powerful that it burst through the Shield Charm and nailed Grindelwald solidly on the chest; the Dark Wizard flew backward, colliding roughly with a boulder and sliding to the dirt with an agonized groan._

 _Grindelwald's last stand was to grin maliciously as he raised his wand, a knowing glint shining in the fathoms of his black eyes, but the jet of green light was not faster than Dumbledore's explosion of red._

 _Sidestepping the Killing curse, Dumbledore raised his arm and accepted Grindelwald's wand as it flew neatly into his hand._

" _Your time has come, Gellert!" Dumbledore boomed, and Draco was struck stupid at the sheer gravity of it all, of the image of his Headmaster defeating one of the the most powerful Dark wizards ever to walk the earth, second only to Voldemort himself._

 _Gone was the dotty old man whose eyes twinkled and who always had a lemon drop to offer in his office and in place of him stood a raging, terrible, commanding wizard with eyes as hard as slate - and yet there was something else in his gaze… was it sorrow? Remorse?_

 _Regret?_

 __" _You!" snarled Grindelwald, pushing to his feet. "It is impossible! How, Albus?!" the blond demanded vehemently, looking demented with his teeth bared maniacally. "How have you overcome what is legend?"_

 _"You have always so deeply misunderstood, Gellert," responded Dumbledore. "You have failed, yet again, to see that power yields first to those who do not seek to control it…"_

And then it was over. The scene faded into nothing, and Draco was rising through the memory, slamming into his own body and gasping for air, stumbling backward as the present-day Headmistress' office swam into view, head throbbing relentlessly as the gathering storm pounded against the towering windows.

.

* * *

 **Thanks to IpreferJasper, MotekElm** a **nd NeverlandFunhouse. You guys rock.**


	26. The Deathly Hallows

Hermione didn't understand how she'd talked herself into doing this.

Probably, it had _something_ to do with maintaining her pristine grades. Definitely, it had _everything_ to do with the way Draco had mocked her in the library the day before.

But there was at least some small part of her, Hermione knew, that was here to convince herself that she was strong enough to handle this as the sophisticated, fully-grown witch she was supposed to be, rather than the cowering child she'd been of late.

And somehow, the door leading to the Defense classroom had never seemed so… ominous.

But she _was_ going to do it.

Really, she was.

Any moment now, Hermione was going to stride into Professor Snape's office and calmly, _confidently,_ request the assignment she had missed. There was no need to be so bloody _nervous_ about it, was there?

She was a Gryffindor.

An _adult_ Gryffindor, and in just a second, she was going to pluck up the courage and prove to herself that she could do this. With rationality, and maturity.

… Maybe she just needed a few moments to compose herself?

Yes, that was the problem - she was obviously still on edge from the meeting with Scrimgeour; it had nothing to do with the fact that Professor Snape had basically seen her naked.

Nothing at all.

It was like Draco had said: Snape wasn't going to tease her. He wasn't a child, and furthermore, neither was she.

 _Right,_ she thought firmly. _Enough stalling._

Hermione raised her fist, hesitated, and then rapped sharply on the door.

 _Maybe he won't even be here, maybe he's not even in the castle…_

"Enter," came Snape's curt reply.

 _Shite._

Deep breath.

Hermione passed quickly through the classroom and then veered toward Snape's connecting office, halting in the archway when she realized that he was facing away from her, apparently consulting one of the many books he kept on the shelves behind his desk. He turned offhandedly toward her, tore his eyes away from the page - and stopped.

The book that had been open in his palms snapped shut, and Snape pointed a finger in the direction she had come, studiously refusing to meet her gaze.

"Get out."

"Professor -"

" _Get out."_

"But -"

" _No."_

"I just needed -"

"We have nothing to discuss."

" - the assignment I missed last Wednesday -"

"You've been given zero marks."

Hermione gaped. "But that's not fair!"

"Such is life," said Snape coldly.

"But, sir, I was in the Hospital Wing! You can't fault me for that!"

Finally looking her full in the face, he arched a patronizing brow and said, "You're quite sure of that, are you?"

"I - well -" Hermione squared her shoulders. "I'll go to Professor McGonagall."

But Snape did not seem the least bit perturbed. "Miss Granger, if you have decided that you are brave enough to threaten a teacher, at least have sufficient enough cheek not to _stammer_ when you do it."

"Just because -"

"Stop," he barked. "Unless it is your ambition to scrub bedpans until you graduate, I suggest you choose your next words carefully. Why are you here?"

"Because I missed your lesson, sir," she answered, nervously tucking a bit of wayward hair behind her ear. "And I'd like the assignment to complete the grade."

Snape snorted unpleasantly. "Do you get the impression I was born yesterday, Miss Granger? Why _else_ are you here?"

Hermione shifted her weight to the other foot and averted her eyes. _So much for bravery._

In retrospect, it was stupid of her to think that she would leave Professor Snape's office with her ego intact; still, she'd endured worse verbal eviscerations from him than this, and a bit of condescension was nothing she couldn't handle.

" _Well?"_ Snape prompted, and Hermione turned her eyes back to him.

"The Minister was here," she said.

He sighed heavily, his shoulders falling as though making a very undesirable concession. "Have a seat, Miss Granger," he said resignedly, moving his wand wordlessly toward the door as he made to sit behind his desk.

Surprised, Hermione glanced at the archway over her shoulder and then slowly turned back to face him. There was no mistaking that wand movement. Snape had just cast a _Muffliato_ over the entrance to the classroom, but she'd never seen anyone else use a spell Harry had learned from the Half-Blood Prince's copy of _Advanced Potion-Making._

Snape met her inquiring expression with a rancorous look.

"Sit down, before I change my mind," he snapped, and Hermione made her way swiftly across the room and lowered herself into the chair with a mumbled apology. "I ought to have expected that you would still be worried about _marks_ even under threat of mortal peril."

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but Snape silenced her with a sharp tilt of his head as he reached for his quill.

"That was not an invitation for you to prattle on about your reasons," he said, scratching what Hermione could only assume was her assignment onto a spare bit of parchment. He passed it to her before settling back into his chair, crossing his arms and then regarding her with a stern expression. "My question is why you would seek _me_ out for answers."

Hermione faltered. "Well, sir - there's not exactly an abundance of Order members at Hogwarts -"

"Rubbish," he interjected. "With Professor McGonagall and Nymphadora, there is hardly a shortage."

Hermione grinned despite herself. "Don't you mean Professor Lupin?"

Snape snorted. "Nymphadora was a last resort; she is barely qualified for the title, whatever her innate talents are. Enough jokes, Miss Granger. Why?"

"Because they aren't as integral as you are, sir," she said honestly. "I doubt that they would be able to help, and given your position -"

"My position as a ranking Death Eater is precisely the reason you should be wary of me."

"Dumbledore trusted you," Hermione responded simply.

"And if he was mistaken?" asked Snape rhetorically. "If Dumbledore had put his faith in the wrong person, given the wrong wizard a second chance, how precarious would the information you shared with me then become?"

"If that were the case, Professor, I don't think you'd be pointing that out to me."

Snape glared at her reproachfully. "Don't be intentionally thick. The point I am trying to make, Miss Granger, is that you are far too easy with your trust. That information should be _guarded,_ not thrown about so carelessly as you are doing now."

"Yes, sir," she said, willing to take the reprimand for the lesson it truly was. Not that she believed him for a second.

"May I see it?" he asked brusquely.

"Sir?"

He rolled his eyes. "The book, Miss Granger. That _is_ the reason why you have come, is it not?"

Hermione felt her own lips curve into a smile. "So you _did_ already know, I knew it -"

"Spare me," he retorted. "Logical deduction is no reason to trust a person. Especially not a spy."

He held out his hand expectantly, and Hermione dug into her beaded bag; Snape craned his neck for a better look, apparently noticing the accessory for the first time.

"Is that bag registered with the Ministry, Miss Granger?" he asked, though his tone was not admonishing.

"Er..." she began sheepishly.

But Snape shook his head. "I'm not going to confiscate it," he told her. "Though, I have to wonder where you learned that particular skill. I don't imagine it's in Professor Flitwick's curriculum."

Relieved, Hermione removed _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ and handed it to him across the desk. "I read about it. It was tricky, of course, I didn't manage it on the first go."

"Of course, you read about it," Snape said rudely, and Hermione watched her Professor's face closely for the reaction she had been hoping for.

Surely enough, Snape opened to the introductory page and his stare settled immediately on the curious symbol that was inked in next to the title. She could tell by the suddenly rigid set of his shoulders when he gave pause that Snape was surprised to have seen it - but he flicked his eyes up to hers, and the moment passed almost as swiftly as it had come. The thoughtful expression was schooled almost instantly back to the indifferent facade he always wore, and he proceeded to flip through the rest of the book as though there was nothing strange at all.

Hermione, however, was not discouraged. "You recognize it, don't you, Professor?" she asked eagerly. "The symbol. It isn't a rune, not one that I've ever encountered."

"No, I do not," he said tersely, but even his smooth, practiced lie could not deceive her.

"Please, sir," she said, vaguely aware that she had taken on the same tone she so often utilized during his lessons. "Why would Dumbledore have given me _this_ book? Ron says they're children's stories, but that doesn't make any sense, does it? And that symbol -"

"Weasley," Snape said disdainfully. "I've seen glaciers that move faster than him."

"But, sir," she pressed. "You have to admit that it's odd that Dumbledore would choose to bequeath this to me in his _will_ when he might've easily given it to me before he died."

"I expect you shall have to translate it and find out," he said. "Whatever message he meant to pass to you, if indeed there is one, will be in the text."

He pushed the book across the desk and Hermione took it in her hands, gazing down at it pensively. "So…" she began quietly. "So you don't think it'll make any difference if I ask his portrait?"

Snape gave a short, derisive laugh. "If you must," he said lightly, and Hermione didn't think she'd ever heard him sound so amused. "I'll wager the whole of my Gringotts vault that he won't give you a straight answer."

Hermione looked up at him. "You don't think he would be forthcoming, sir?"

"Forthcoming," he echoed snidely. "Albus Dumbledore is anything but. If he were, would he have left a trio of miscreants three utterly useless items and a missing historical artifact in a will he knew would be seized by the Ministry?"

"But you said 'if indeed there is' a message, sir, that implies that there may not be one."

"Use your head, Miss Granger," said Snape forcefully.

Hermione took a moment to mull over the implications of that statement before responding.

"Professor, you said 'a trio,' but there were four of us," she said. "Draco was included in the will."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Was he?"

"Yes," she said, nodding. "Dumbledore left him his own memories. We haven't seen them, Draco went to the Headmistress' office to use the Pensieve straight away."

Snape looked thoughtful. "I was not aware - it must have been a last minute addition."

"The Minister called it an addendum," Hermione supplied.

He sneered at her. "I realize that you have yet to overcome your impulsive need to state the obvious, but do try to restrain yourself."

"Sorry, sir," she apologized. "Do you think -"

Snape cut her off. "No. I have no idea what the memories are and therefore wouldn't have a clue as to the meaning behind them. Suffice it to say, their purpose will not have been exclusively sentimental."

"Like the book," she said. "And the deluminator, and the Snitch… but I still don't understand, sir. Why wouldn't Dumbledore have given these to us when he was alive? There was plenty of opportunity."

Her professor fixed her with a candid stare, and Hermione tried to read what little emotion was displayed within them - which was, really, none at all. Snape was forever inscrutable, never giving anything away, but even in his expressionless gaze, there was something underlying his stoicism. Something like resentment.

"Miss Granger, I cannot claim to know the motives behind Dumbledore's actions," he explained. "Rest assured, however, that his intentions are not pure."

Hermione stared back at him and was astounded. "Professor, that's - I hardly think that Dumbledore -"

"Albus Dumbledore was many things, Miss Granger. A great teacher, and an even greater sorcerer - he was also a puppet master. Do you mean to tell me that you have never doubted him?"

"I…"

Snape arched a single black eyebrow.

"Perhaps, sometimes, his actions seemed… questionable."

Snape nodded slowly. "Remember it," he said. "I tell you this because you are the only one intelligent enough to heed the warning with proper objectivity. Do not lose sight of what Dumbledore would have seen as the larger picture."

Hermione was quiet for a moment. "I think I understand, sir."

"Good. Then get out."

"Er."

She cringed and averted her eyes; Snape heaved a sigh.

"Very well, Miss Granger," he said, waving a hand toward her in a gesture for her to continue. "What else?"

Shifting uncomfortably in her seat, she said quietly, "I was wondering about something you said to Draco the other night… about Lucius Malfoy."

"Ah," said Snape, looking toward the ceiling before meeting her eyes once more. "I see the pair of you are no longer keeping things from one another."

"I suppose I wouldn't know if Draco was, sir, but he did tell me about your warning." She shrugged. "I only thought - well, you wouldn't say it without cause, would you?"

"You're scared," he surmised. "As well you should be."

Hermione blanched. "Is it - is it really that serious, Professor?"

Snape gave her a pained expression, looking as conflicted as Hermione had ever seen him. It was obvious that he was hesitant to part with whatever information he was holding on to - but for what reason, Hermione could not imagine.

"Please, sir," she prodded. "Whatever Lucius Malfoy has done, it can't be any more of a shock than what everybody already knows about him, can it?"

"Trust me, Miss Granger. It very well _can."_

Hermione bit distractedly on her lip. "Professor, I think it's only fair -"

"Do not speak to me about what is fair," he said coldly, but Hermione could tell that she had won, for Snape already seemed troubled, as though knowing that he may bitterly regret what he was about to reveal. "You must swear not to repeat this to anyone but Draco. Not to Potter, not to Weasley, and, most importantly, _never_ to Narcissa Malfoy."

Hermione gave a confused shake of her head. "Sir, I don't think there will ever be an opportunity for me and Draco's mother to have a heart-to-heart, even if…" She trailed off and decided not to finish that sentence. It was too soon to consider.

"You are too quick to judge her," Snape said. "Which is not to say that she would not be quick to judge _you_ in any situation, but the first thing you must understand about Narcissa Malfoy is that her love for Draco is boundless. I would not be surprised to learn that she would stand with him regardless of his choices."

"But, not Lucius?"

"Swear it, Miss Granger. No one can know."

"I swear," Hermione said instantly. Probably, she'd have agreed to anything just to get Snape to spit it out.

He settled back into his chair, as though he was still undecided on whether to trust her; finally, he launched into explanation. "The threat to you by Lucius Malfoy is as tangible as it gets. With things between you and Draco being… what they evidently are, not even the Dark Lord is as dangerous to you, for his focus will always be Potter. Lucius Malfoy will never see you as anything less than a menace to the pristine Malfoy bloodline -"

"But -"

"Don't interrupt, girl. I am trying to make you understand the seriousness of this situation."

"Sorry, sir."

"Lucius Malfoy's prejudices do not - have never - extended to sexual gratification. He was pledged to Narcissa Black from his fifth year in at Hogwarts, but he was never faithful to her in his adolescence. There were many others; one of them was a Ravenclaw Prefect by the name of Mathilda Greene - a Muggleborn."

Hermione's mouth fell open at this absurdity. _"No."_

Snape snarled at her contemptuously. "Don't be so shocked. Ask Draco what sort of witch or wizard is the main form of entertainment during a revel, Miss Granger, and you shall be thoroughly jarred out of your naivety. Now, are you quite finished interrupting?"

"Sorry, sir," she muttered again, wondering just how pale her face was at this point.

"Mathilda was foolish enough to think that Lucius' attentions were based on deeper emotions than lust; in actuality, no such fondness for her existed. She hoped, in the way that many innocent girls do, that Lucius would reveal his true love for her by calling off his engagement to Narcissa, and so confronted him with an ultimatum." He paused, looking at Hermione directly in the eye to secure her full attention. "Her body was found the very next morning, made to be a public example of the Dark Lord's growing power."

Hermione gasped, gripping the chair for balance. She felt dizzy, like the very ground beneath her was starting to spin. This couldn't be real. This could not _possibly_ be true.

Could it?

"H-How… How do you know all this?" she managed. "Did Lucius tell you?"

Snape shook his head. "No. I was only in my third year during that time. I was already involved with many people whose names you will no doubt recognize as notorious Death Eaters, but I was too young to be within Lucius Malfoy's confidence. As you might have guessed, Lucius' relationship with Mathilda was anything but obvious. I did, however, make a habit of wandering the grounds after dark during my more… angsty teenage years. Incidentally, so did they, and I happened upon the conversation by accident. Lucius assured her that he would make their 'love' known, and then he lead the girl away to her death."

"But - but the wards," she argued, trying to remain logical. "Surely Lucius wouldn't have been able to return afterward without alerting the staff - someone would have realized -"

"This, coming from the girl whose misguided antics over the course of six years have almost certainly found ways in and out of the school undetected," said Snape harshly.

"It couldn't be…" she whispered hopefully. "A coincidence?"

"For Merlin's _sake,_ you silly girl," he said angrily, and Hermione jumped at his loss of temper. "You are letting your emotions cloud your judgement, much like the unfortunate girl who made herself a liability and was killed for it. What I heard and saw is nothing short of incontrovertible proof, and yet you continue to question it simply because you are afraid. Be _rational."_

"But you knew!" Hermione accused, her knuckles white around the edge of her chair. "You _knew_ and you never told anyone! Her family might have had justice, closure! You could have had Lucius in Azkaban with your testimony, and because of _you,_ he's been free to murder since then!"

"Control yourself, Miss Granger," he said through his teeth. "You are not among your little friends, and I will not have -"

"No!" she shouted bravely as irrational tears began to well in her eyes. "There's no excusing what you did! That girl was killed, and her family suffered for it - _she_ suffered for it, and all you have to say is _control yourself?"_

Snape seemed to jolt back into self-awareness with a small backward jerk of his head, _and rightly so,_ Hermione thought furiously. He sat back in his chair and his lips thinned into what was an unmistakably guilty expression, looking on as Hermione wiped at her face with the sleeve of her robe.

"Forgive me, Miss Granger," he said softly, and Hermione snapped her head up in shock. "I… should have realized you would be so affected."

Hermione was at a complete loss for words. To hear _Professor Snape_ apologize for being insensitive was the last thing she had expected.

"I did not know that Lucius Malfoy was leading Mathilda to the Dark Lord at the time, but afterward, I chose not to act because my loyalties were misplaced, much like Draco's were not so long ago. I… regret it," he confessed.

Hermione wiped again at the bottom of her eyes and looked away. "How come you never told Narcissa? How come you didn't tell Draco?"

"Why did I not tell Narcissa that the love of her life was a cheater and even more of a bastard than she had already known? Because it is not my place to interfere with families, nor is it my place to rob Draco of the image he has of his father. Draco idolizes Lucius, and until recently he was not of age. More to the point, I did not believe that the fact Draco's father was guilty of such heinous crimes against Muggleborns would be relevant to a boy whom I still thought to be prejudiced."

Hermione nodded. "Sir, you don't think…" she started hesitantly. "You don't think Draco would…"

"Draco is as incapable of murder as he is facilitating the death of other people, especially people he cares about, Miss Granger," he said, narrowing his eyes curiously. "If you have such doubts about him, perhaps you should reconsider your choice of relationship."

"It's not that," Hermione said, biting her lip. "I just - sometimes I wonder - do you think he's changed?"

"I believe he is beginning to think for himself," said Snape evasively, and then waved his hand toward the door. "I am sure you have more pressing matters to concern yourself with elsewhere, Miss Granger. Quit bothering me."

Hermione tucked _The Tales of Beedle The Bard_ into her bag and pushed herself out of the chair. "Right. Er, thank you, Professor," she said. "I'll have my essay ready to be handed in tomorrow."

"See that you do," he said as he reached for his quill, and Hermione, understanding herself to be properly dismissed, made her way to the door.

As soon as she reached the archway, however, Snape called, "And, Miss Granger?"

She turned.

"Tread carefully."

She nodded. "I will, sir," she promised.

Hermione left the classroom, resolving that she would wait to tell Draco the truth - until she was sure that he could handle it, at least; with everything else going on, there was no need to burden him with even greater troubles.

She would keep it a secret, for now. It was only right.

This is what she told herself.

.

* * *

.

Draco took an unsteady step forward and braced his hands against the table, staring down at the Pensieve which appeared deceptively inoffensive for an object that had just facilitated so much inner turmoil. Pulling in a shaky breath, Draco drew his wand and extracted the memories from the basin and guided them back into the bottle.

The headache that had plagued him had grown in its intensity, now a skull-splitting pain that was nestled behind his eyes as he glared up at the window, where the rain was still hammering relentlessly against the glass. Rubbing at his temples, Draco let out a frustrated growl and tried very hard not to occlude the thoughts that were already threatening to fade. He knew that it was imperative that he feel them, even though he was averse to the anguish - of both the mental and physical varieties.

What was it Granger had said on the Astronomy Tower?

 _It's a part of what you would call healing…_

Right. Healing. Feeling.

Draco hurriedly brought the emotions to the forefront of his mind and allowed himself to experience them: regret, anger, jealousy, fear - so much fear; and then, later, faith, _hope,_ the love he held for his mother, for both of his parents, the feelings he now held for Hermione Granger, still confusing and as yet unnamed.

All the emotions he had unknowingly endeavored to shut out came trickling in - not rushing, but drifting slowly, _manageably_ back to him, settling in his psyche where they had belonged the whole time. Where he could compartmentalize them accordingly. When his headache began to ease, Draco smirked in triumph. It was true, then. All he had to do was control it.

Draco sighed in relief, arching his neck backward and letting his relaxation wash over him, closing his eyes as he let himself _think._

"I had hoped it would come to this, Draco," said a voice from behind him.

Draco whipped around on the spot, his wand held aloft as he searched for who had intruded upon him. It was Dumbledore's portrait, and he was finally awake, smiling softly from his perch on the painted high-backed chair, blue eyes twinkling characteristically down as they had done so often in life.

"Professor Dumbledore," Draco said vacantly, crossing the room to stand in front of the portrait of the wizard who had gone to such great lengths for him. "What do you mean, ' _I hoped it would come to this'?"_

"I had hoped to see that the memories would have such a profound effect on you," said Dumbledore. "It was always my intention to help you change your view of the world, and it would seem that you have done so. In a very small space of time, I might add."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "How do you know my views have changed?"

"It is not so difficult to tell," said Dumbledore. "And if your relationship with Miss Granger is anything to go by, I would say that you are a very different man from the boy who once believed so strongly in the importance blood-purity."

"Snape told you," Draco grumbled.

" _Professor_ Snape, Draco."

"I don't see that it was his business - or yours."

"Perhaps it is not," Dumbledore conceded with a small tilt of his head. "And yet I would venture to say that you have found comfort in her."

"Professor, did you…" Draco grimaced. "Did you mean for things to happen that way?"

Dumbledore shook his head. "I did not," he admitted. "Your safety from your housemates was always my first concern. I had merely hoped that being in such close proximity to a brilliant Muggleborn student would help to alter your opinions. Nevertheless, I am proud of how far you have come."

 _Proud._

Draco stared dumbly back at the late Headmaster's portrait - no one had ever told Draco that they were _proud_ of him. Never his father, for sure; not even his mother had ever claimed pride in her son. What reason did they have to be?

"I wouldn't say I've come as far as you think," Draco muttered. "I don't feel that way about Granger. She _is_ brilliant, exceptional even… but the others, other Muggleborns, I mean. I don't have a reason to respect them. Not the same way I do for her."

Dumbledore shook his head sadly. "You have always been unyielding, Draco, even in the face of solid proof otherwise."

"Proof?" Draco repeated. "I don't see any _proof._ The others - they're half-rates compared to her."

Dumbledore chuckled. "Indeed, _many_ witches and wizards are half-rated compared to Miss Granger, but not for the reasons you claim. Most pureblood students cannot approach her intelligence or her inherent talent as a witch. Do you believe that she would accept your views of people who she will no doubt feel akin to?"

Draco looked away. "I don't understand why you would give me those memories, Professor," he said, changing the subject. "They don't make any sense to me."

"It does not make sense that I would remind you of the rewards of unshakeable virtue and strong moral fiber when you are placed in a hostile political situation where Muggleborns lives are in danger, and when you are caught in the middle of a war in which you play a major part?"

"Bloody sentimental…" Draco murmured, and then more loudly, "But the last memory doesn't include me. How does your duel with Grindelwald relate to me at all?"

"I included that memory for all four of you to see," explained Dumbledore, lacing his fingers together and resting his conjoined fists in his lap. "As a reminder that absolute power corrupts absolutely - Miss Granger may recognize that reference to Muggle literature."

Draco snorted. "What power do _we_ have? We're - I mean, we're running in blind circles trying to figure out this sodding puzzle that we have absolutely no understanding of. We don't know what we're doing, and all you've done is add more pieces for us to fumble with."

"Power shall come to those who do not seek to control it, Draco," said Dumbledore cryptically, and Draco made a frustrated noise, his fists curling at his eyes.

"Why can't you just explain things the way you want us to comprehend them?"

"You already have the understanding," Dumbledore countered. "It is but a simple matter of applying the knowledge in the right way."

"That's ridiculous!"

"It is the only way," Dumbledore said calmly. "I trust you shall be handing over the memories to Mister Potter so that he may view them?"

"Well, yes, of course, but -"

Dumbledore nodded. "Good. I have been eager to speak with him… he has been angry with me, I suspect. I believe he is bitter that I chose to destroy the locket, knowing that it may kill me."

"He isn't the only one," Draco said shortly.

Dumbledore smiled solemnly.

"Who's Mathilda Greene, Professor?"

"That is something you shall have to ask your mother, Draco," Dumbledore said firmly. "It is not my place to reveal that information. She would not be pleased."

"Then why even include the sodding memory?" asked Draco indignantly.

"I thought it would help to know how much your mother would sacrifice for your safety. I am of the opinion that Narcissa Malfoy would surprise you in that aspect."

Draco grumbled something inaudible and turned to leave, but at the last moment, spun back around. "Professor, are there spare vials here?"

Dumbledore waited a beat before answering, observing Draco in silence with piercing, all-knowing eyes. Finally, he acquiesced, "In the drawers of the wardrobe, my boy. I am sure that Professor McGonagall will not miss one."

"Thanks," said Draco gratefully, crossing back to the cabinet and withdrawing one of the small, glass containers. Using his wand, Draco extracted the memory of his mother from the larger bottle and transferred it to the vial, which he then shrank and stowed safely into one of his inner pockets. There was no reason for the others to see it, not until he knew more about who Mathilda Greene was and why she was so important to his mother. With everything else going on, there was no reason to burden them with even greater troubles.

He would keep it a secret, for now. It was only right.

This is what he told himself.

"And, Draco?" called Dumbledore.

Draco turned. "Sir?"

"There shall come a time when you will have to make a choice, and when you do, you shall have to be prepared to offer Miss Granger your unwavering protection. I trust you know that."

Draco nodded curtly. "Yes, sir. I know."

.

* * *

.

"Abraxas Malfoy is turning in his grave!" seethed the portrait of Phineas Nigellus Black. "The boy is a disgrace to his name!"

"His separation from his family's bigoted values is hardly a disgrace," sniffed Dilys Derwent, flipping her blonde ringlets over her shoulder. "It is a great honor indeed, he has done his ancestors proud -" She shot a disdainful glare toward Black's portrait. " - whether or not they are too blind to see it!"

"Come now, Phineas," assuaged Dumbledore. "There is no need for such vehemence. Surely even your cold heart cannot deny the power of love."

" _Love,"_ Phineas spat. "A weakness, a frailty - a humiliation!"

" _Phineas!"_ Minerva McGonagall scolded.

"I have half a mind to visit my other portrait and inform his parents -"

There was a unanimous cry of outrage as every Headmaster or Headmistress' portrait protested angrily, some of them going as far as to shake their fists or bang on the edge of their frames irately.

"Minerva," said Dumbledore sharply.

"You will do no such thing, Phineas Nigellus Black!" McGonagall said sternly. "You are bound by duty to this school and, as Headmistress, I order you to keep your silence!"

"Mark me, Minerva," Phineas said menacingly. "This won't end well."

.

* * *

.

"Almerick Sawbridge," Hermione said tiredly, dragging her feet up the stairs that lead to her common room and not really knowing what to expect when she got there.

She'd told the boys (and Ron had very nearly refused) to wait for her so that they could discuss together what Dumbledore had left the four of them, but her conversation with Professor Snape had run longer than she'd anticipated. To put it very lightly, Hermione was emotionally drained.

Lucius Malfoy was more than just a hypocrite, more than just a murderer - he had killed a Muggleborn girl because she was a liability to him, a threat to his pureblood engagement to Narcissa Black… how does one sleep with a woman and then hand her over to the Dark Lord as though she meant nothing? As though she _was_ nothing… and this was Draco's father, the father he'd looked up to his whole life - the man whom Draco had strived to imitate for years, and in some ways, still did. Professor Snape had said that Draco was no murderer, but was he really so different than the man who raised him?

 _Yes,_ said the little voice that spoke from Hermione's heart of hearts. _He's different, you know he is. You've seen it, felt it -_

But the voice that spoke from her head disagreed. _The sins of the father, Hermione - the apple never does fall far from the tree._

And yet, to say that Draco was one way simply because of his father was a prejudice of its own, wasn't it? Hermione had told Ginny as much herself.

 _He was bred into this, Hermione,_ said the conflicting rationality in her mind, and she shook her head to banish the thoughts.

Hermione passed through the archway and was surprised to see that Harry and Ron were not there, but Draco was, standing at the opposite end of the common room with his back to her, looking thoughtfully out the window. His robes lay forgotten, draped over the end of the couch, and the attractive line of his shoulders was tense underneath the thin fabric of his Oxford as he stared out over the grounds. Hermione watched him apprehensively, taking in the image of his lithe form, the silvery blonde hair that tapered at the nape of his neck, the thin hand that gripped his wand - she should be honest with him, shouldn't she?

"Hey," she said quietly, and Draco turned, rewarding her with one of those rare smiles, the one that positively lit up his features and seemed to be so common for her these days.

Not a smirk, not a grin, but a smile.

"Took you long enough," he said obnoxiously, and Hermione smiled, shaking her head.

"I was -"

"I already know. Potter saw you on the map," he stopped her. "What did Snape say?"

Hermione shrugged. "He was just as rude as usual," she said, grinning. "I got my assignment."

"No teasing?"

She laughed. "No, you were right." Hermione crossed over to the table, setting her school bag on its surface and shrugging out of her robe before removing _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ from the smaller bag.

"I was talking to him about this." She flipped to the introductory page and passed it to him. "This symbol - it isn't printed, it's been inked in by someone… but I've never seen it, and Professor Snape _says_ he hasn't either. Do you recognize it?"

Draco accepted the book and squinted at the page, eyebrows furrowing toward one another as he turned it in his hands, as though something might come to him if he looked at it from a different angle. At last, he shook his head. "No, I've never seen it. But I know these stories - my mum used to read them to me."

"That's what Ron said after you left for the Headmistress' office."

Draco raised his eyebrows. "You two are on speaking terms again?"

Hermione cringed. "Well, he wasn't exactly what I would call 'polite.'"

"Tosser," Draco muttered.

"Professor Snape said he didn't recognize the symbol, but… I don't know if I believe him. I think he was lying."

Draco snorted. "Come on, Hermione, that man could tell me that Hogwarts is in Ireland and I'd probably believe him. He's a _spy,_ and if he can fool the Dark Lord, an eighteen-year-old girl doesn't stand a chance." He passed the book back to her and turned away to collapse gracefully into the couch.

"I know what I saw," she insisted, following him. "It was only for a moment, but I _saw_ it."

Draco rolled his eyes. "What did you see?"

"Hope."

He scoffed. "Hope, Granger? Honestly? These are children's stories we're talking about. Fairy tales."

"Then why would Dumbledore leave them to me in his will?" she pressed. "It must be _something,_ 'entertaining and instructive,' remember? It can't just be _fairy tales._ Professor Snape said something that implied that there might be some sort of hidden message -"

"A message that the Ministry couldn't find?" asked Draco dubiously.

"I suppose I'll find out after I translate it - it shouldn't take long - but you have to admit, it's strange," she said. "And it isn't as if these are just _Muggle_ children's stories, everything has a meaning in the Wizarding World."

"Granger," Draco said seriously. "Even in the Wizarding World, fairy tales are just fairy tales."

"But the symbol -"

"What about it?" he said, throwing up his hands. "If not even Snape has seen it before, then chances are it's probably just some wizard's doodling in a book. A kid, probably. Maybe even Dumbledore when he was little."

"I don't think so," said Hermione, shaking her head. "There must be a deeper meaning."

"That's what I thought about the memories, Hermione," Draco reasoned. "But when I asked him about them, all he said was that he was trying to remind me about virtue and strong moral fiber - it's bollocks, all of it."

Hermione brightened, having forgotten all about why Draco had gone to the Headmistress' office. "Oh, the _memories,_ what were they?" she asked enthusiastically.

Draco looked uncomfortable, angling his neck to the side as though hesitant to speak. "Look, Hermione, when you see them… you're not going to like some of the things I said about you."

Hermione's face fell. "About me?" she asked, confused. "Why would Dumbledore give you memories of you talking about _me?"_

"For starters, Snape went and told him about us," he said, and Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with both hands as the blood rushed to her cheeks. "Yes, I know. It gets better and better. Anyway, listen - it was… it was different back then, alright? I don't think about you that way, not anymore."

"Oh," said Hermione softly, realizing what he must be talking about. "I see."

"No, _listen,"_ said Draco emphatically, leaning forward and propping his elbows on his knees, palms turned upward as though the gesture would make her fully understand. "You have to believe me. I don't think that way about you anymore."

"I…" She winced. "Where are Harry and Ron? They said they'd wait for me."

Draco made a face. "They've already gone to view the memories in McGonagall's office. Don't look at me like that! You were taking too long. They probably won't be especially cheery when they get back, after they've seen -"

The portrait swung open and there was a sound of two sets of feet stomping up the stairs; not a moment later, Harry ripped the Invisibility Cloak from around their bodies and Hermione was shocked to see that he was gripping the _Sword of Gryffindor_ in the other hand. Hermione's eyes flew instantly to it and she gaped in astonishment, but neither Harry or Ron seemed very concerned with the fact that they had in their possession a legendary and supposedly _missing_ artifact, for their attentions were both centered entirely on Draco.

"I suppose you're gonna tell us you didn't mean any of it, are you?" asked Harry stonily.

"Look, Potter," Draco said warily.

"No, _you_ look, Malfoy," said Ron angrily, advancing swiftly on Malfoy with his fists clenched.

"Watch it," Draco warned, standing to meet him. "Don't start something you won't be able to finish, Weasel."

"Don't _Weasel_ me! I've told this lot from the beginning that you weren't any different from before, and here's the bloody proof."

"Ron, don't," Hermione said soothingly. "It doesn't matter anymore."

"No!" Ron yelled, pointing at Draco aggressively. "You didn't hear, you haven't seen what he said about you. To _Dumbledore,_ and you want to believe he's changed!"

"I have changed," Draco said in a low voice. "So, this is what we're back to? My loyalties? I think we've come a bit far for all that, haven't we?"

Harry glared hatefully across the room from the doorway. "I'd say that your loyalties are pretty questionable to me if you still believe in all that rubbish about blood-purity."

Ron nodded in agreement. "If you're gonna talk about her like that -"

Draco laughed disdainfully. "What, now you're going to pretend like you give so much of a fuck, Weasley? After how _you_ talked to her the other night, just because she doesn't want to be your sodding girlfriend -"

And Ron rounded on Hermione furiously, his face a brilliant shade of red. _"You told him?"_

"I - well," Hermione stammered awkwardly. "I needed to talk to someone, didn't I, and -"

"So you decided to talk to _Malfoy_ about it? Like he _cares_ about how you feel, Hermione?"

"Don't start on her!" Draco shouted defensively. "It's your fault for being such a prick -"

"My fault?" Ron echoed incredulously. " _My fault?"_

"Yes, Weasley, that's what I said," Draco said icily. "Or don't you understand English?"

"Fuck you, Malfoy!"

And in the space of a second, both arguing boys were brandishing their wands at each other's throats.

The other two sprang into action, rushing forward to intervene. Harry dragged his best friend backward by Ron's wand arm and looped his hand around the red-haired wizard's chest when he tried to wrench away; at the same time, Hermione jumped in front of Draco and spread her arms wide, moving back and forth to block him every time he tried to duck around her.

"Calm down, Draco," Hermione assuaged, trying to get him to hold her gaze.

" _Draco?_ You're calling him _Draco_ now?" Ron demanded, and Hermione spun around to face him.

"That's his _name,_ Ronald!"

But Ron wasn't the only one who seemed suspicious. Harry, too, was regarding her through narrowed eyes that jumped rapidly between Hermione and Draco, his mind working furiously, trying to figure it out…

Hermione drove on without hesitation, desperate to avoid them delving any further into that subject. "In case you two've forgotten, there are much bigger, much more _important_ things to be worrying about," she said waspishly. "So you should probably think about _that,_ instead of focusing on your differences -" She turned and glared pointedly at Draco, trying to convey the deeper meaning that he should shut the hell up before he got them both into trouble. "- so we can figure this damned thing out and put an end to this war."

Wheeling back around, she looked to her best friend for support. "Right, Harry?"

Harry paused for a moment, seeming to consider before finally letting go of Ron's arm. "Right," he said. "She's right."

"Thank you," said Hermione primly, and then when none of them moved, "Well, for goodness _sake,_ you three, sit down!"

They all passed each other spiteful glares but grudgingly obeyed. Harry set the Sword of Gryffindor on the coffee table and then backed into one of the armchairs, running a hand through his scruffy hair and expelling a tense breath. "The sword's been behind Dumbledore's portrait all the time," he said. "I suppose I would have known if I'd just gone to talk to him."

"What did he say about the Snitch, Harry?" Hermione asked.

Harry's lip curled distastefully. "He just went on about the rewards of _perseverance and skill_. He said the same thing to Ron about the deluminator, what was it -" he turned to Ron. "That you'll remember him when you use it?"

Ron nodded, apparently still too hot to speak, for he kept shooting dark looks toward Draco, who pretended not to notice.

"He said the same thing about the memories," Draco offered. "Virtue and strong moral fiber."

They all shared an exasperated eye-roll because this, if nothing else, they could all agree upon.

"Merlin forbid he give us a flat answer," Ron muttered unhelpfully. "But _nooo,_ he's got to talk in riddles. He's mental, Dumbledore is, even for a bloody portrait."

Hermione stared into the crackling hearth. "Professor Snape said that whatever Dumbledore wanted to tell us won't just be sentimental."

"You talked to _Snape_ about it?" Harry asked loudly.

"He already _knew,_ for your information," Hermione snapped. "And besides, I think he's right. Whatever Dumbledore wants us to know, we're supposed to figure it out on our own."

Draco gave a short, bark of a laugh. "Not everything is a puzzle, Granger - what we _ought_ to be doing is paying more attention to finding this sodding Diadem, not trying to decode a _will."_

Hermione glared at him. " _Not_ that we're done talking about the will, but I did find something odd in Ravenclaw's biography," she said. "Her family was from Albania."

Ron and Harry both faced her.

"Were they?" Harry asked.

"Yes!" Hermione nodded, smiling. "And we know that _that_ can't be a coincidence, can it?"

"No, it can't," said Harry. "But, really, I don't see why it helps us any. Voldemort went to Albania after the curse rebounded, but what if that means he hid the Diadem _there?_ Which would also mean that we're wasting our time at Hogwarts."

"I still think it's in the castle, Harry," Hermione said quickly.

" _Why?"_ he countered. "I'm starting to think that all evidence points elsewhere, I - look, I finished Dumbledore's biography, Hermione. Did you know he was from Godric's Hollow?"

Hermione's lips parted in surprise. "No, I didn't."

"Neither did I," Harry said bitterly. "But I'm thinking, what if Voldemort hid a Horcrux there? It would make sense, it's a place that would have meaning to him -"

"Harry," she chided. "Don't tell me you're thinking of going there."

"Why not?" he asked, offended. "I think it's the obvious choice. Dumbledore lived there, Godric Gryffindor himself lived there. It's where my parents died."

"That's exactly why it's a horrible idea, Potter," Draco chimed in. "Voldemort will be _expecting_ you to show up there, we'll be walking straight into a trap."

"Draco's right, Harry," Hermione said softly. "You're being sentimental."

"I'm not being _sentimental,_ Hermione!" said Harry crossly.

"I understand why you want to go, but Voldemort will already have anticipated that." Hermione turned to Ron. "What do you think?"

Ron snarled at her before giving Harry an apologetic look. "Sorry, mate, but I think they've got it right this time."

Harry slackened in his armchair, looking petulant. "Fine," he said furiously. "I suppose I'm outvoted, then."

"So," Draco said importantly. "Next order of business. Theo Nott skived off Transfiguration today."

Ron snorted. "Yea, and I reckon we know exactly where he went, too."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"I was thinking we could ask Dumbledore's Army to help," said Harry, looking to the others for approval. "They'd be glad to do it."

But Draco shook his head. "You want to put them all in danger, Potter? Don't you remember what happened? He tried to kick Granger off the sodding landing without even knowing who she was when he thought he was being followed. That's your _second_ worst idea of the day."

Harry looked a bit taken off guard, as though he hadn't considered that, but Hermione said, "I was thinking the same thing, actually - if we could just lend them the Invisibility Cloak -"

"Not a chance," said Harry. "It's too risky. We need it."

Hermione sighed in defeat. "Well, I suppose that's out then."

"Well, Malfoy's got rounds tonight. Haven't you?" asked Ron, and Draco nodded. "So he can keep a lookout on the Room of Requirement."

"Obviously," Draco spat. Ron sneered in response. "But Blaise Zabini was asking questions today, offering to help."

All heads in the room jerked round to look at him, and Draco raised his hands up by his shoulders.

"I know what you're all thinking, but just hear me out," he placated. "Blaise in a _much_ better position to keep an eye on Theo. We can't get into the Room of Requirement when he's using it, but there might be something that's more obvious in Theo's day-to-day life - something he keeps in the dormitory, maybe. Something in his school bag, even. I wouldn't go as far as to say Blaise is necessarily in Theo's confidence. _No_ one really is, but it's worth a shot, I think."

"I dunno, Malfoy," Hermione said skeptically. "We don't have a reason to trust him."

But Harry disagreed. "Do it," he said immediately. "Tell him to watch Nott and try to figure out what it is he's up to."

"Harry -" Ron protested.

"It's the best plan we've got, Ron," said Harry. "If all we're doing with Nott is the same thing I did with Malfoy all last year, we'll never find out what he's up to. But that's _all,_ Malfoy, nothing else."

Draco nodded. "I'll talk to him tomorrow… as for the Diadem, we need to consider consulting one of the ghosts. Professor Binns, perhaps -"

" _Or,_ we can visit Rowena's portrait," countered Hermione. "Maybe she'll answer some more questions."

"Not likely," Ron said resentfully, glowering at the fireplace. "But it can't hurt."

"Are you lot serious?" Draco asked. "You _still_ don't want to ask a ghost? It's _clearly_ the most expedient option, for fuck's sake -"

"Just let me do a bit more research first," Hermione cut in. "Then we'll ask."

Draco rolled his neck in annoyance and settled back into the sofa.

"I agree with Hermione," said Harry suddenly, adopting a far-off expression as he gazed out the window. "Ghosts aren't loyal to anyone, and we can't guarantee that they won't tell someone else who questions them. But I just can't help but feel that I've _seen_ that Diadem before. I can't place it, but it just seems so familiar, for some reason…"

Draco turned sharply to face him. "I've been thinking the same thing, Potter."

He and Harry locked eyes, sharing a bemused stare as Hermione wondered what silent questions were passing between them.

It didn't seem at all likely… what place could Harry and Draco possibly have in common where they might have seen the Diadem?

.

* * *

.

Severus Snape sat in his private quarters, slumped into one of his armchairs and staring into the fire that was blazing in the hearth, brooding morosely as he berated Albus Dumbledore in the privacy of his own mind.

Severus did not typically drink, not during wartime - he could be Summoned at any moment, and it would certainly not do to be inebriated in the Dark Lord's presence. But hopefully, Severus would _not_ be summoned, because he was already on his third glass of Firewhisky and had no intentions of stopping there.

It seemed the only appropriate measure to take, for these children were surely going to die. Were there no limits to Albus Dumbledore's manipulations?

Severus had never believed in the myth of the Deathly Hallows. It had never seemed logical, for starters, that a children's tale would be taken seriously by so many obsessive adult wizards. They could not possibly be real, Severus had maintained. In fact, he had never given _The_ _Tale of the Three Brothers_ anything more than a cursory acknowledgement, although he had known that some were fool enough to pursue their legend…

And yet, it was now painfully clear that they were very, very real.

More than that, _they were in the hands of children._

Potter's sodding Cloak of Invisibility…

The Resurrection Stone, quite obviously hidden inside that Snitch…

and the Elder Wand, which the Dark Lord would eventually raid Dumbledore's tomb for but which would not answer to him.

Because it would answer to Draco Malfoy, instead.

So Severus drank, both for anger and for hope. Maybe these kids would live, after all.

.

* * *

 **A/n: Oh, dear. Draco and Hermione are keeping secrets from each other.**

 **Mentions go to A Week of Sundays and ZeldaSeverous**


	27. The Marauder's Map

.

* * *

Dinner at Grimmauld Place was being prepared later and later in order to accommodate Arthur, who was never able to make it back to Headquarters earlier than eight o'clock in the evening due to the inordinate amount of raids being conducted by his department. According to him, not even the First Wizarding War had yielded so many disturbing results. These findings were credited in no small part to Narcissa, who had been consistently feeding Arthur and Moody information on how to access the hidden chambers inside of several Death Eater homes.

It came as no surprise that Alastor regarded her suspiciously anytime she volunteered something for the benefit of the Order, but Narcissa's purpose was certainly not to ingratiate herself with the likes of _him,_ and anyway, Arthur seemed appreciative enough for the leads.

It was, however, to the great consternation of Molly Weasley that her husband had decided to coordinate a raid this late at night. Frankly, Narcissa was inclined to agree with her, for the basement was positively bursting with Order members at the moment, which left Narcissa feeling very claustrophobic indeed. The sooner they all ate and were gone, the better off she would be.

As Headquarters for the Order of the Phoenix, Grimmauld Place was a constant flurry of activity as a general rule, but there weren't usually _this_ many people at one time, and in Narcissa's opinion, it seemed rather frivolous to celebrate for something as small as the Weasley girl's return, especially given that Ginny was not the least bit joyed to be back.

 _Though,_ Narcissa thought with a smirk, _she's much happier with her twin brothers here._ Whatever their names were.

"It's there, Fred!" said one of the twins, pointing enthusiastically at the table. "Geddit!"

"Quit helping him, George," Ginny scolded good-naturedly. "Let him play his _own_ game."

The twin named Fred jabbed his wand at the Manticore card that was the pair to his own, but to no avail: the card exploded in a shower of red sparks, which all players jerked reflexively away from, laughing as the other twin batted away the plume of smoke.

"Don't mind her," said Fred with his perpetual smile. "She's just sore that she's about to lose her fourth game in a row."

Ginny scoffed. "You're only one point ahead. We'll see if I don't get the last two!"

It seemed that Ginny was in luck, for the next card that turned over was a match to one of hers - a Hippogriff whose wings were beating furiously as the beast clicked its monstrous beak - and she rushed to capture it with the tip of her wand, but the card burst into flames before she could manage. Both twins raised their arms, pumping their fists into the air and cheering gleefully at their victory.

Ginny slapped the table indignantly. "Not fair! That deck was rigged!" she accused. "I never should have agreed to use _your_ set - one from your own shop, no doubt!"

Fred snickered. "You can never out-Snap the Exploding Snap masters," he said, then to the room at large, "Who's next?"

"Best out of ten!" Ginny declared as the cards began to reform out of the pile of ashy remnants on the table's surface.

"Best out of _ten,"_ repeated George, looking to his twin. "First, it was best out of three -"

"Then, best out of five -" Fred added.

"And best out of seven," George finished mischievously. "You've run out of 'bests', Gin."

"Unless you want to make it _interesting_ ," said the other twin, his red eyebrows jumping with emphasis.

Ginny smiled. "You're on!"

" _You absolutely will not_ , _Ginevra Weasley!"_ Molly intervened, turning from the stove to wave a wooden spoon imperiously at her children. "And _you_ two, baiting her when she's much too young to be gambling."

" _Mum!"_ protested Ginny, employing that tone only ever affected by rebellious teenage girls.

Narcissa would know. She'd been one herself, once upon a time.

"That's final, young lady," said Molly sternly, and Ginny's shoulders slumped.

"Yea, we're obviously _corrupting_ her virtue," said George, turning to his sister-in-law. "How about you, Fleur?"

Fred shuffled the cards hopefully. "Care to make a wager?"

Fleur turned her nose up. "I theenk not. Eet is a 'orribly barbaric game," she declined, flipping her curtain of silvery hair over her shoulder with a set of beautifully manicured nails. Ginny glared at her with an unattractive sneer.

Narcissa, who was always glad that her husband was mostly incapacitated when Fleur was present, could understand quite clearly the girl's aversion to the Veela witch. It was a sentiment that seemed to be echoed similarly in every other female in the house, whether they were open about it or not.

"How 'bout you, Mrs. Malfoy?" asked George with poorly-feigned innocence. "Want to play?"

Narcissa gave him a sidelong glance and grinned, raising her chin when she turned to face him. "I fear I would embarrass you," she said archly. "Neither of you will last against a champion."

"Challenge accepted!" Fred exclaimed fervently, smiling widely as he hurried to sit opposite her.

"Molly - Arthur's on his way," said Lupin suddenly, and Narcissa paused, glancing over to the corner where he and Bill had been speaking to one another in low whispers for most of the evening.

Her eyes flicked up to the clock next and she saw that, indeed, Arthur's hand had spun to indicate that he was 'Traveling'.

"Oh!" said Molly excitedly, hands fluttering in the direction of her daughter. "Ginny, dear, set the table. Quickly, quickly!"

"Have Fred and George do it!" Ginny objected furiously. " _I've_ still got the Trace, _they_ can do it with magic."

"Don't _argue_ with me, Ginny!" Molly rebuked, folding her arms over her ample chest.

Letting out a noise of frustration, Ginny stomped off toward the dining room and slammed the door behind her.

Fred leaned toward Narcissa and whispered, "This isn't over, Mrs. Malfoy."

"It most certainly isn't," she responded haughtily.

Not a moment later, a muffled _Crack!_ sounded from the front step and in trudged the tired forms of Kingsley Shacklebolt and Arthur Weasley, followed closely by a limping Mad-Eye Moody, whose wooden leg _thudded_ loudly with each step. Molly hurried over to take Kingsley and Arthur's cloaks but didn't bother to ask Alastor for his, knowing that the aged Auror would never have surrendered it.

"How'd it go, Dad?" asked Bill anxiously, taking a few steps forward.

"Into the dining room, then, dinner's ready," Molly said overbearingly, moving to hang the articles over several hooks lining the basement wall.

No one contradicted her as they filed through the swinging door and emerged into the adjoining room, where Ginny was placing an assortment of mismatched plates and flatware around the long and still relatively ornate-looking table.

Narcissa was assaulted, as she was every evening, with just how preposterous this all was, that she was being made to feel welcome by people who had scorned her not very long ago, that she was taking celebratory meals with them as though she had never been their enemy and playing card games with them to pass the monotonous time. More than three months later, it was no less strange to her than it had been on the first day, though their reception of her was now much warmer as opposed to begrudgingly cordial. Time had that effect, Narcissa eventually realized, that bewildering way of thawing the icy indifference and cool toleration into something friendlier and more accepting.

For the most part, anyway.

"It's about time, Dad," said one of the twins - which one was it who'd had his ear cursed off? Narcissa could no longer tell the difference now that they'd moved from their former places and weren't saying each other's names.

Was it Fred? No. Not Fred. George. Probably.

"Been waiting for ages to get a decent meal," agreed the other twin as he slid into the seat next to his brother.

Molly set one of the trays of food down and then promptly planted her hands on her hips, looking affronted. "Well, really, just what have the pair of you been _eating_ all this time?"

The twins smirked. "Pot noodles," they said together.

Molly gasped, scandalized. " Pot - _Pot Noodles!"_ she shrilled incredulously. "And I suppose it would just kill you to find a good girl and settle down with someone who can take _care_ of you!"

"Oh, there're plenty of girls to go around, Mum," said the twin with the missing ear.

"Just not any to _keep_ around -"

"- if you catch our meaning."

Ginny snickered. Sputtering, Molly spun around to face her husband, who was sitting at the head of the table. "Arthur, talk to your sons!" she commanded, making to sit at the opposite end.

Arthur sighed and picked up his fork and knife as the roast began to magically dole itself out, drifting to each plate while the Yorkshire Pudding floated behind it. He waved the silverware at Fred and George and obediently lectured them on not using women for their own amusement.

To no one's surprise, Mad-Eye sat next to Narcissa. It had become quite customary for him to breathe down her neck every time he dined at Grimmauld Place, apparently believing that just being closer to her could stop Narcissa from enacting any vicious plans she had for the Order's downfall. She'd ceased letting such things bother her, but still gave him a calculating glare whenever he did it.

"Arthur," prompted Lupin from his spot on the other side of Alastor. "How'd the raid turn out?"

"Lucrative," he responded, his tone dripping with irony as he cut into his roast. "You wouldn't believe what we uncovered hidden behind Macnair's library."

"Was anyone hurt?" asked Bill.

Arthur swallowed a bite. "One of the younger Aurors got cursed by a particularly vengeful book, but the St. Mungo's Healers have him on the mend by now." He turned his gaze to Narcissa and said to her directly, "Thank you. Your help has been truly invaluable."

"And Isla?" Narcissa asked, unable to keep the hope and apprehension from creeping into her voice.

Arthur gave her an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, Narcissa, but she resisted the warrant - there was nothing I could do to. The Aurors arrested her. If she had only cooperated -"

"I understand, Arthur," Narcissa assured him with a stiff nod, though she cast her eyes down to her food. Isla had always been a very kind woman and a loyal friend.

"And serve her right," said Alastor abrasively. "This lenient policy for Death Eaters has no place in the Ministry."

Narcissa forced her shoulders back and met eyes with a fearless stare. "Isla Macnair is not a Death Eater."

"She's as good as one," he argued. "Being married to a Death Eater is the same as being married to You-Know-Who himself."

"I disagree," said Narcissa boldly. "If that were the case, Isla would bear the Dark Mark to prove it."

Alastor laughed gruffly. "Well, you _would_ disagree, wouldn't you, Narcissa?"

"Zis is not kind of you, Mad-Eye," said Fleur throatily. "You are not being fair. She is a member of ze Order, is she not? Eef Narceessa is ze one providing you with ze information, zen surely she is trustworthy."

Narcissa said nothing, gazing at the other blond in stunned silence and, for the first time, admiration.

When had the any of these people started coming to her defense?

Arthur cleared his throat, quickly changing the subject before the conversation steered into even more dangerous waters; obviously, he was not interested in refereeing yet another row between Narcissa and Alastor after what was already an undoubtedly trying day.

"Walden wasn't at home, but we're hoping that he won't have heard about the raid. With any luck, he'll show up at the Ministry tomorrow for work and the Department of Magical Law Enforcement can ship him off to Azkaban."

"I take it you found enough evidence for a lengthy sentence?" Lupin inquired, sipping from his goblet.

"A _life_ sentence, several times over," Moody confirmed roughly. "But we aren't getting our hopes up. Chances are, he'll have already gone to ground. You-Know-Who will have him hidden away good and well." His electric-blue eye swivelled repulsively to Narcissa. "Funny, that. Narcissa's information rarely leads to an arrest."

"If I recall," Narcissa said mildly, refusing to look at him as she brought a forkful of Yorkshire pudding to her mouth. "It was my information that led to the arrest of Gibbon. Or maybe your memory is going."

Moody grunted unhappily. Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose as though trying to ward off a headache. "It gets worse. Two more Ministry officials have gone 'missing.'"

"Who?" breathed Molly, hand splayed over her heart.

"Madam Edgecombe, who ran the Floo Network Office - replaced by Patrina Youngblood. Her first order of business was to reactivate the Floo connection to Hogwarts -"

" _What?"_ Ginny shrieked, the loudest of several angry shouts around the table.

"Calm down," said Arthur. "We were able to warn Minerva in time for her to rectify it. There's not a Dark Wizard alive who's powerful enough to break through her and Snape's enchantments, and not to mention all that ancient magic that protects the castle. But that action's told us everything we need to know about her - either Youngblood's one of You-Know-Who's puppets, or she's an actual Death Eater."

Arthur looked up at Narcissa inquiringly, and she stared thoughtfully at her goblet. At last, she said, "I've never met her."

Kingsley inclined his head. "It is getting worse in the Muggle Prime Minister's office as well. The workers who are closest to him are being put under the Imperius curse so quickly that it is becoming impossible to keep up. The Aurors in place at the Scotland Yard report that mysterious Muggle deaths are being dismissed as heart attacks and that they are having increased difficulty convincing the _Daily Prophet_ to print them."

Even the twins looked somber at this news.

"Who's the other Ministry worker, Dad?" asked Bill.

Looking uncomfortable, Arthur said, "Dirk Cresswell."

Fleur gasped and looked immediately to her husband, resting her hand on his shoulder. "Oh, Bill," she said consolingly.

Narcissa peered around at the others, whose attentions were all focused solely on the eldest Weasley son as he began to choke on his words. "Merlin -"

"I'm sorry, Bill," Arthur said regretfully.

It was clear that Bill was trying very hard to maintain his composure. He set his fork and knife on the plate and pushed back his chair. "Excuse me," was all he said before he left the room. Fleur trailed behind, her pretty face wrought with concern.

Confused, Narcissa turned to Arthur, whose blue eyes were still melancholy as he scrubbed a hand down the side of his weary face. "Dirk Cresswell was the Head of the Goblin Liaison Office," he explained in a low sort of voice. "As a Gringotts employee, Bill knew him very well. They were friends."

"I see," Narcissa said quietly, swallowing as she bowed her head. The subtle action was the only way to pay her respects, but she was also unwilling to meet the eyes of anyone else at the table. It was, after all, not very long ago that the Order would have seen Narcissa as the only source of blame for the deaths caused by the Dark Lord and his followers; many of them continued to do so, in fact, most notably Kingsley and Alastor.

Or, maybe she blamed herself. How many times had she seen the Dark Lord kill without a second thought, how many times had she witnessed the witches and wizards who had once been her comrades maim and torture and rape innocent people? How many times had she suffered it without flinching, making no move to stop such gross injustice?

For a long while, no one spoke. Narcissa could only assume that they, too, were paying their respects or else mourning the loss of someone they knew, someone they had worked with, someone who was reported missing but who was certainly dead, overlooked by a Ministry that was falling further into enemy hands with every passing day.

It was Alastor who finally broke the silence.

"Perhaps you want to explain to the rest of the Order why you've got two wands in your pocket?" Moody growled, motioning toward Narcissa's side with the tip of his knife.

Slowly, Narcissa lifted her head to answer. "It would seem that your legendary talents are slipping, Alastor," Narcissa said coolly, facing him. "I've had Lucius' wand since Saturday, and yet it's taken you four days to notice. Perhaps the rumors are true, after all, and you've gone round the bend at last. Pity."

"We've been saying _that_ for years," said one of the twins unhelpfully, and Narcissa thought it must have been to bring a bit of ease to the tension that had descended like a blanket over the suddenly much more stifling room.

"That's a valid question, Narcissa," said Arthur, frowning. "Why _have_ you got Lucius' wand?"

"My husband is ill," she said, not looking away from Moody or the swivelling eye that was bouncing intrusively around her face.

"That's no reason to take his weapon," Alastor pointed out. "Could it be that you, yourself, don't _trust_ him?"

"Of course, I trust him," Narcissa lied. "I'm only afraid that he might hurt himself if he attempts to perform even the simplest of healing spells. His hands tremble, he stumbles over his words - taking his wand is merely a precaution for his own safety."

"Well," said Molly appeasingly, already fretting over an impending outburst. "That's something we can all understand, I'm sure - Lucius is unwell, it's only reasonable -"

"She's scared Lucius'll return to You-Know-Who, is what I understand," said Moody, his mouth twisting into a hideous grimace. "Isn't that right, Narcissa?"

"Certainly not," she denied, her fingers curling tightly around her flatware.

Alastor chuckled foully, knowing he'd touched a nerve. "Yes, you are," he decided. "You think he's looking for a way to relieve that pain he's feeling in his wrist. Don't you?"

Well. He wasn't the Ministry's most highly-celebrated Auror for nothing, was he?

"You are making excuses to throw him back in Azkaban, Alastor," Narcissa maintained calmly, carefully checking her temper lest her dishonesty become apparent to everyone in the room.

"Where he belongs!" Moody shouted, slamming his fork and knife against the table impatiently. "And you'd be right beside him if I had my way!"

"Alastor," Molly chided gently.

"It's quite alright, Molly," said Narcissa, scowling as she allowed her gaze to roam over Mad-Eye's haggard appearance. "I take no offense to the inane ramblings of a paranoid Auror, so far past the age of retirement that he is no longer capable of sound deductive reasoning."

The twins failed to suppress their laughter as Moody's lip curled in distaste.

"I know a Dark Wizard when I see one," he said coldly. "And that goes for witches, too."

"Alastor," came Kingsley's deep, resonating baritone. "Albus Dumbledore's decisions shall be honored, even in his death."

Shocked, Narcissa turned to appraise him. For the last three months, Kingsley had been civil to her at best. This man was the absolute last person she would have expected to stand up for her. He had been present when Dumbledore had confronted her on the night Draco had changed sides - he'd _heard_ what Narcissa herself had said about Lucius - but perhaps he had understood, perhaps he trusted that she would, indeed, do what she had promised to do… perhaps Narcissa taking Lucius' wand had cemented her loyalty in Kingsley's mind.

"Thank you, Kingsley," said Narcissa sincerely, straightening in her chair.

" _Oh, please!"_ Ginny shouted abruptly, jumping to her feet and glaring around the table. "Lucius Malfoy tried to _kill_ me when I was eleven years old, when I was just a _kid,_ and we're honestly having a serious conversation about whether or not he deserves to be in Azkaban?"

Throwing her napkin over her plate, she laughed humorlessly and looked Narcissa plainly in the eye. "Sorry, Mrs. Malfoy, but your husband's a fucking prick. He deserves to rot in prison."

"Ginny!" screamed Molly, rising as her daughter stormed out of the dining room.

Lupin reached over the table and took the older woman firmly by the wrist, shaking his head. "Give her time," he said softly.

Molly, looking very much like she wanted to jerk away from him to follow, laughed nervously and instead moved in the opposite direction. "Well, I suppose I'll just get the cobbler, then," she said shakily, disappearing through the kitchen door.

But Narcissa was no longer hungry.

.

* * *

 _._

 _My dearest Draco,_

 _I have learned that Severus will be arriving shortly to escort Nymphadora to the castle, so I am writing as quickly as I can. It is my understanding that she is in a more opportune position to give you this letter because of your weekly schedule, so I am sending it with her._

 _There is nothing noteworthy to disclose, I'm afraid. People continue to come in and out of the house frequently, but nothing of interest has occurred other than reports that the Dark Lord is growing steadily in power._

 _However, the Weasley daughter has only been here for a few short hours and she has already provided plenty of entertainment, though I am somewhat offended on Molly's behalf that the girl would speak to her mother the way she has done._

 _Draco, I was terrified to learn what happened with Pansy, Vincent, and Gregory on the castle grounds. I simply cannot relate how deeply frightened I am for your safety. Severus tells me that you have refused on more than one occasion to part with the other children… I suppose you are friends, now. This new determination is very gallant, Draco, but I beg you to consider your own protection. Severus can assist you, should you choose to flee the country - you have your own key to the Gringotts vault, money would be of no issue. You are too young to be fighting a war!_

 _I wish that my pleas were not falling on deaf ears, but it appears that you have chosen your way. Dumbledore warned me that this might happen, but I admit that I did not imagine it would truly become the case._

 _Your father is doing well, though I get the impression that he's become quite restless being trapped in this house. He sends his best regards._

 _Severus has arrived and I must seal this envelope, but I have one request to make of you._

 _If you have not already been told, Nymphadora is pregnant. Personally, I disagree that she should be working at all, but she insists upon being active. I ask that you do your best to look after her and assist her in whatever she might need. Nymphadora may not be included in our family tree, but she is your cousin, and the child she is carrying is your niece or nephew - werewolf or otherwise._

 _I miss you terribly, Draco._

 _Love,_

 _Narcissa_

Draco gazed down at the now heavily creased letter, the parchment already appearing much older than it really was because of how many times he had unfolded it and then folded it again, his eyes lingering always on the spot where the ink had blurred the words 'I miss you'. Not evidence of Narcissa's tears, but Draco's.

Hermione hadn't read the letter. It wasn't that he didn't want to share it with her, necessarily, but that he wasn't sure what it would say. His mother was hardly careless enough to include anything like the word _Mudblood_ in a letter that would pass through the hands of another Order member, but still. It could have contained literally anything.

He needn't have worried. The missive might actually have put some of Hermione's fears to rest, though it did nothing to ease Draco's.

His mother was lying to him. Snape must not have let on that he had told Draco about his father's true condition, and Draco could see his mother's reasoning - if both of his parents were doing fine, there was less motivation for him to continue to fight against Voldemort.

Narcissa Malfoy, the consummate Slytherin.

She had no idea how many things had changed, how many things were different beyond reversal. What would she say, if she knew? And yet, it seemed that Narcissa's own perspective was shifting as well - he felt certain that, a few months ago, his mother would _never_ have asked Draco to mind his cousin during her half-breed pregnancy; a few months ago, she'd never have called Tonks his family, at all. Nymphadora and Andromeda were disowned, blasted off the family tree, a half-blood and a blood traitor, respectively, and surely not worth even a cursory mention in his mother's eyes.

And yet.

Draco read through the letter once more, savoring it, committing it to memory. It was as much warmth he had ever received from her. Whether that was because Narcissa Malfoy was truly evolving, or because it was easier for her to express herself through parchment, he did not know. Perhaps this, too, was a part of Dumbledore's impossibly extensive and manipulative masterplan.

He didn't want to sacrifice this remaining connection to his mother, but he had no choice. Although there was no cliche 'burn-after-reading' instruction written in postscript, Narcissa knew that her son was no fool. He'd held onto it for too long.

He incinerated the parchment, quickly vanishing the ash before he peeked around the edge of the alcove, watching the length of the deserted seventh-floor corridor for any sign of movement. The prefect he was patrolling with had said she would stick to the lower floors while Draco wandered the higher ones, but Draco hadn't left this spot in the last three hours.

He could see the Room of Requirement from here - or, rather, where the door _would_ be when it eventually appeared. So far, it hadn't.

Draco knew that Theo was using it because he'd tried several times to get it to open for him but with no results. Granted, it could have been anyone on the other side of the wall, but Draco didn't need Potter's stupid bloody map to know who it was.

Unfortunately, there was no strategic place to comfortably watch the blank stretch of wall without risking being seen, which he absolutely could not chance. If Theo knew he was being followed, he would change his tactics and whatever his task was would be plunged into even deeper obscurity - but fucking Potter had refused to surrender the Invisibility Cloak, insisting that, no, he didn't have any problem loaning it to Draco, but there was just something important he needed it for this evening.

Draco wasn't convinced.

Instead, he had settled himself into a nearby alcove and sat at its corner, facing in the direction of the Room of Requirement, barely visible should Theo suddenly emerge. It wasn't the best position, and certainly not the safest, but it would have to do.

When, after a few moments of scrutiny, the door still did not appear, Draco looked back down at the thin book that lay in his lap:

Elie Wiesel's _Night._

It was the product of Draco's brief foray into the _Muggle Studies_ section of the library earlier that evening. He'd been so nervous that someone would catch him in enemy territory that he had raced to the _World War II_ shelf and snatched the smallest, most nondescript book he could find before immediately retreating. It had turned out to be the disposition of a Jew, the memoirs of the author's childhood during his time in what, Draco had learned, was termed a 'concentration camp'. He'd been hoping for something closer to a historical text and had almost returned it to its place, but the preface had hooked his attention instantly:

 _Convinced that this period in history would be judged one day, I knew that I must bear witness…_

Were it not for that line, Draco probably would have forsaken the book in favor of something more concrete, but the remainder of the preface and then the forward had effectively entranced him - and now, the first chapter had him wondering whether he was wrong about what Hermione had told him. It appeared that Draco wasn't the only person to have questioned the validity of the mass extermination she had described and that there must have been many Muggles who denied it as well. The concept had piqued his interest, but he hadn't had time to finish the book, although it was very short - in fact, he didn't have time to finish it _now,_ because a glance at his watch told him it was midnight.

He had no desire to stay here all morning to watch for Theo, especially not without the cloak. And besides, maybe Hermione was still awake. When Draco had left her, she'd been engrossed in _The Tales of Beedle the Bard,_ and he had a feeling she would still be sitting in the common room waiting for his return.

Cheered with that thought, Draco looked back down at _Night_ and tapped his wand against the cover, transfiguring the title into something that would be less suspicious should someone catch him with it. Truthfully, he didn't even want Hermione to know he had it, or else he might be forced to admit that she was right. Draco currently had a winning streak where being right was concerned, and he was not ready to abdicate that particular throne.

Since _Night_ was much too thin to be disguised as a school textbook, he'd opted for something a tad more believable. No one would question why he was carrying _The Pure-Blood Directory_ on his person, but even then, Draco had no intentions of allowing anyone to find it and shrank it, tucking it into the pocket of his robe for safe-keeping.

Draco pushed himself up off the floor and, after glancing left and right for any onlookers, strode out into the corridor with a parting glare at the deceptively empty wall, heading quickly for the common room.

He didn't make it far.

Out of the darkness, with no apparent body attached to them, two hands swept out and closed around the front of Draco's robes, dragging him roughly to the side - he pushed against the markedly scrawny wrists, trying to extricate himself from their grasp, and shouted wildly into the deserted hallway.

" _Get off!"_

But his attacker, whoever it was, had already built enough momentum to swing Draco around and into an empty classroom; Draco turned and overbalanced, stumbling over his own feet and crashing directly into a desk even as he drew his wand.

" _Stupefy!"_ he yelled, whipping around to fire blindly at an assailant whom he could not see.

The stunner bounced off a swiftly-implemented shield charm and rebounded; Draco dodged, rearing back to cast again, but the door to the classroom slammed shut and Harry Potter materialized out of nowhere, pulling the Invisibility Cloak away from his body and then discarding it on the floor.

Draco's eyes darted down to the wand Potter was brandishing in his right hand and sneered.

" _This_ is why you wouldn't let me borrow the cloak?" Draco asked. "So you could ambush me in the middle of the night? For fuck's sake, Potter -"

Without speaking, the dark-haired wizard dug into his pocket and withdrew the Marauder's Map, holding it up as though it was the only necessary explanation.

 _Fuck. The map. The sodding, stupid fucking map._

Potter stared at Draco. Draco stared back.

"Start talking, Malfoy."

"Your map? You've dragged me into an empty classroom after curfew to show me a sodding map? Ten points from -"

"Cut it out," said Potter. "You know why I'm here."

Draco raised a brow. "Haven't the foggiest, actually."

Potter's hand tightened visibly around his wand. "Stop pretending, Malfoy," he said angrily. "I _saw_ you with her."

"I don't know what you _think_ you saw, Potter, but that map is obviously faulty. It's lying -"

" _The map never lies."_

Lowering his wand, Draco swore violently and spun away to face the opposite wall, watching the soft drizzling of rain as it pattered against the window and the dull moonlight that was struggling to shine through the overcast night sky.

He had a headache. He should have known - he should have thought about that fucking map. _The fucking map._

"Look," he said quietly. "You need to leave this alone, Potter. Please."

"Don't tell me what I _need_ to do, Malfoy -"

And Draco wheeled around. _"This isn't how she wanted you to find out!"_ he said desperately. "She wanted to tell you _herself."_

Potter looked furious. "What's to _tell,_ Malfoy, you're using her!"

" _Using_ her? You think I'm -" Draco laughed humorlessly and shook his head. "We're done here."

Scowling, he charged toward the door, covering the distance in a few long strides with his wand at the ready in case Potter really lost his temper and tried to curse him - but the other wizard stepped neatly in front of him, arms outstretched.

"No, we're not."

" _Move,_ Potter," Draco demanded, sweeping his hand to the side in an attempt to forcibly push him out of the way.

Potter had been ready, however, and was evidently much stronger than he looked, for he curled his fists into Draco's robes for the second time and shoved him back so hard that Draco staggered and collided with the desk, barely quick enough to throw out his hands and cling to the nearest surface to stop himself falling to the floor.

Draco growled and raised his wand, but it was hopeless: Potter's was already pointed at his face.

"Listen, Malfoy. We can do this the easy way, or the hard way," he said firmly. "Whichever you choose is fine with me, but you're not leaving this room until you talk."

Draco nodded his head toward the map, which now lay abandoned on the floor where Potter had dropped it during the scuffle. "What were you even doing watching that bloody thing? You were meant to be at Quidditch practice at the time."

Potter gave an empty laugh. "Been acting strange, the pair of you. Ever since all that trouble with Pansy, Hermione's never around anymore, always holed up in your common room. She calls you by your first name sometimes when she isn't thinking about it. You shouted at the _Minister of Magic_ because he upset her, Malfoy. I mean, honestly, could you be any more obvious?" He lowered his wand. "I had to know for sure, so I checked between tryouts - and, oh, look, I was _right."_

Draco's lip curled. "You _had to know?_ " he asked, overtaken by irrational jealousy. "If you've suspected for so long, why the fuck did you wait until now to say anything, Potter? You didn't seem bothered by it before Ginny left the castle."

Potter tilted his head to the side, clearly trying to control his fury. "Just what are you implying, Malfoy?"

"There's no need to _imply_ anything. I'm _telling_ you that just because you're girlfriend's gone, doesn't give you the right to come after _mine._ "

The words came tumbling out before he could even think to stop them, and Potter paced backward, looking just as shocked as Draco was.

"Did you just call Hermione your girlfriend?"

Draco tried to quell the panic that was bubbling in his heart. "What if I did?" he challenged.

"She's Muggleborn."

"Obviously," Draco said, rolling his eyes. "What's your point?"

"My _point?_ My _point_ is that you've been calling her a mudblood for, oh, how long has it been. _Six years?"_

"Things change," Draco said tightly. "People change."

"Do they?"

"Would we be having this conversation if they didn't?"

"Dumbledore's memories -"

"Were a long time ago."

"They weren't!" Potter argued. "They were a month ago at the longest, Malfoy. I'm not gonna let you set her up -"

" _I'm not setting her up!"_

" _Prove it!"_

Draco turned away and ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't know how to do that, Potter," he admitted, refusing to face him. "Maybe Dumbledore's memories, what you and Weasley saw - maybe they weren't that long ago. But, to me, they feel like a fucking _lifetime_ ago."

Potter snorted. "So you expect me to believe that just because you've been sharing a dorm with her, you've suddenly seen the error of your ways?"

He would never understand how difficult this was. "Potter -" Draco paused, considering how to describe it. But how could he, when he had no understanding of it himself? "I can't - I don't know how to explain."

"Yea, you don't know how to explain it because you _don't_ really care about her -"

Draco spun around, raising a threatening finger. "Don't _ever_ fucking tell me that I don't care about Hermione."

Potter's mouth fell open. It seemed that the Chosen One was at a complete loss for words, as though he didn't at all know how to respond to that statement, and Draco couldn't blame him. This was obviously not the way Potter had expected this exchange to go.

"Don't ever tell me that I don't care about her, Potter," he continued. "I know I said a lot of horrible things to her, I know I treated her like -... I know I treated her really poorly -"

"Poorly."

"Okay, I treated her really fucking bad, alright? _I know._ You can remind me every single day for the rest of my fucking _life_ that I don't deserve her - but it isn't going to change anything about how I feel."

Potter nodded slowly. "Go on."

 _Merlin._ He wanted _more?_

Draco looked toward the ceiling, turning on the spot and shoving his wand into his pocket - and when his gaze finally found Potter's, the dark-haired wizard's eyes were dancing with amusement; clearly, he enjoyed watching Draco squirm with indecision. Draco wanted to throttle him. "I'd do anything for her," he said truthfully.

Potter's eyebrows disappeared beneath his scruffy hairline. "Oh, really?"

" _Yes,_ really," Draco snapped irritably.

"Would you tell your parents?"

Draco sighed. How had he not expected this? "I can't."

Potter scowled and closed the distance between them.

" _How dare you?"_ he asked fiercely, his face inches from Draco's own. "How _dare_ you think you have a right to her when you're too ashamed to even _admit_ it?"

Draco did not shrink away. "I'm not ashamed of her!"

"You are!" Potter yelled. "You're nothing but a sodding pretentious blood supremacist, Malfoy, and a _hypocrite_ about it as if that wasn't enough, too embarrassed to stand up to your mum and dad because -"

" _Because she may not be safe if I do, Potter!"_

" _Rubbish!"_

"You don't have a fucking _clue_ what you're talking about. You have no _idea -"_

"Enlighten me then," Potter snarled.

The last thing that Draco wanted to do was back down from a confrontation, but he knew that he wouldn't get anywhere with his former nemesis this close to his face. Taking a deep breath, Draco took a long step backward and raised his hands. "I'm not trying to fight you, Potter. Just listen."

Potter's nostrils flared with anger, but he, too, backed away. "Fine."

"Snape said -"

" _Snape knows?"_

"Snape knows. And he said that my father was dangerous, that Hermione might be threatened -"

Potter laughed derisively, cutting him off. "You're going to base your relationship on something that _Snape_ said?"

"He's known my parents for years, Potter," said Draco, glaring.

"Yea, I'm sure he has."

" _That_ was uncalled for. You were there on the Astronomy Tower, you know what side he's on."

"I know what side he _claims_ to be on, which is both of them," Potter said skeptically. "Who would ever be able to tell the difference?"

"Dumbledore, for one," Draco reminded him, turning up his palms. "Look, Snape doesn't have a reason to try and separate Hermione and me - we're just kids to him. He doesn't give a fuck about who I see and he wouldn't say it if he didn't have a reason."

Looking contemplative, Potter directed his gaze toward the other end of the classroom. "What did Snape say _exactly?"_

Draco cast his memory back, thinking. "I can't remember precisely. 'I've seen firsthand what atrocities your father is capable of', 'she's the one who will bear the weight of the consequences', that my father's the epitome of hatred against Muggleborns… he told me not to underestimate him."

"So, what _I'm_ hearing is that you need to break it off before she gets _hurt,_ which is what I've already said. Right?"

Draco sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. " _I know,_ Potter, but Hermione - she doesn't care. She's not afraid."

Potter didn't seem surprised. "I suppose she wouldn't be," he said resignedly, turning to face him. "I just - why didn't she tell us? She never keeps secrets from me. It isn't like her."

"Oh, I don't know," said Draco caustically, spreading his arms wide to indicate the general situation. "Maybe she thought you'd drag me into a classroom and try to fight me, Potter."

"But you - I mean - fuck, Malfoy. Do you _love_ her?"

Draco met his eyes and hesitated. "Did you love Ginny when you first started with her?"

Potter looked uncomfortable. "Well, no -"

"Then don't expect that of me, Potter. It hasn't been that long."

"I don't trust you," he said simply.

"You trust me to know about the Horcruxes," Draco said pointedly. "You trust me to know every bit of sensitive detail about battling the most powerful Dark wizard of all time, but you don't trust me with Hermione?"

Potter shook his head. "She's like my sister, Malfoy - next to the Weasley's, she's the closest thing to family I have left."

Draco sneered. "She's the brightest witch of her age, or hadn't you heard?" he asked sarcastically. "She's intelligent enough to make her own choices."

"I'm not gonna let you hurt her."

"You don't understand!" Draco said vehemently. "I would _literally_ do anything to protect her."

"But not leave her alone, even though you know she might be at risk -"

" _She knows she's at risk!"_ he countered. "If you can convince her that I'm not good for her, well, shit, have at it. Until then -"

Potter raised his eyebrows.

"- I don't know. Fuck. Until then, stay the fuck out of it, Potter. I don't plan to quit seeing her."

The silence that followed was deafening. Bottle-green stared doggedly into pale gray, both opposing wizards daring the other to back down. Neither did.

"What about your inheritance?" Potter finally asked, and Draco took a moment to consider.

Tough question.

"There are more important things than gold. If Voldemort murders me, I won't be rich anyway."

Solid logic, in Draco's opinion; Potter gave a rigid nod.

"This isn't over, Malfoy, not by a longshot," he warned. "And I want you to know -"

"That you'll kill me if I hurt her?"

Potter narrowed his eyes, looking indignant, as though Draco had somehow stolen his thunder. "Well, yea."

Draco shrugged. "If it were different, I wouldn't let you anywhere near her."

Potter seemed to be wondering whether it was worth the effort to contradict him. "I'm going to talk to her, you know. If I can get her to see reason -"

"Good luck with that," Draco sniffed, then added in a more serious tone, "Are you going to tell Weasley?"

Potter cocked his head. "Not if Hermione values your life. He isn't going to be happy when he finds out she rejected him for an obnoxious prat."

"Cheers, Potter."

.

* * *

.

Hermione was curled up in one of the armchairs when he finally returned, with _The Tales of Beedle the Bard_ propped against her knees, apparently so entranced by it that she hadn't even heard Draco come in. She must not have been paying a bit of attention to anything at all, because he'd rather expected her to be pacing about the room and fretting over why he was more than forty-five minutes late from his rounds.

Creeping up behind her, Draco leaned down and placed his lips close to her ear -

"I do hope you weren't trying to sneak up on me," Hermione said absently.

Disappointed, Draco straightened out. "I didn't think you heard me," he grumbled.

"Don't be ridiculous," she said, not turning to see him. "Of course, I heard you."

"But you didn't notice that I'm almost an hour late coming back," he pointed out, coming round to stand in front of her.

Her eyes flicked up to the clock, brows furrowed in confusion. "Where were you?"

"Oh, you know, the usual," he said airily. "Neglecting my Head Boy duties, spying on the Room of Requirement, being interrogated by Harry Potter about my love life."

She snapped to attention and closed the book, slowly unfolding to prise herself off the armchair. "What?"

"You may remember, but Potter has this clever map that shows the entire castle and what everybody inside it is doing at any given time."

Hermione's hands flew to cover her mouth. She looked suitably horrified. "Oh, my _God._ How could I have been so _stupid?"_

"Hmph," said Draco. "If that's how you feel about our relationship -"

"Don't be an idiot, Draco," she interrupted. "What - I mean, what did he _say?_ What did _you_ say?"

Sighing, Draco sank onto the couch and Hermione sat next to him, listening attentively with her hands folded in her lap as he related everything that had been said. Draco did his best to keep focus, but it was hard to stay on-track when she was chewing on her lip - every time his eyes drifted down, she would snap her fingers in front of his face impatiently until he finished the story. When he had finally told her all that he could remember, she sat back against the cushion and directed her gaze to the fireplace, looking pensive.

"You don't seem angry," he commented.

She made a face. "Why should I be? It's sort of a relief, isn't it? I just wish I'd been able to tell him myself."

"Yes, well," he replied dismissively. "Potter wasn't all that concerned about that fact at the time."

"He never is," she said fondly, then turned to glare at him. "I can't believe you suggested he was jealous, Draco. How daft can you get?"

Draco raised his chin. "Surely you know by now that I'm rather possessive."

"With _Harry?"_ She scoffed. "Please. As if I'd _ever,_ as if _he'd_ ever - he's like my brother."

"Yes," Draco agreed with a genuine laugh. "The brother who threatened me on pain of death if I hurt you. I see that now."

She grinned slyly at him. "You can't fault him for that. You truly are a menace."

"Says the girl who almost killed a Ministry official in her fifth year," he said, taking hold of a stray lock of bushy hair and curling it around his finger. "Need I go on about your criminal history?"

"You don't know the half of it," she whispered jokingly. "Are you sure you want a witch like me as your _girlfriend?_ I might tarnish your spotless record, O Holy One."

Draco raised an eyebrow, staring down at her inquisitively. "I wasn't certain how you'd feel about that bit," he said in a rare moment of self-consciousness.

She leaned forward and pressed her lips soundly against his, and Draco slid his hand around her neck, his thumb brushing the bottom of her ear as she sighed softly into his mouth. Hermione needed no words to convey her meaning to him, and he was grateful for it. She was his, and he had no reason to doubt that - there was no reason to tell her that he'd said the word 'girlfriend' by accident.

"The worst isn't over yet," she told him when she pulled away. "There's still Ron. Harry will be child's play compared to him."

Draco grunted noncommittally, not wanting to discuss Weasley or any of Weasley's sensitive little feelings. "How far have you got on the stories?"

Hermione retrieved the book from the coffee table and indicated the crimson marker.

"Three-quarters of the way - it hasn't been easy," she confessed. "These runes are similar to what we learn in class, but they're not quite identical, so the reading doesn't really flow yet. I'm catching on, though, I think… but what I've read so far doesn't seem to add up. _The Tale of the Three Brothers_ and _The Warlock's Hairy Heart_ are too dark to be children's stories… the latter is especially brutal. It's redolent of a Muggle poet, Edgar Allen Poe, and no kid would have been read his stories at bedtime. The others are relatively light-hearted. It's incongruous, really."

Draco shook his head. _"The Wizard and the Hopping Pot_ is hardly what I would call light-hearted. Muggles being devoured by a cauldron isn't exactly a happy tale."

Hermione's eyes went wide. "Oh. I hadn't read that far."

"There's plenty of time to read later," Draco said, pulling her up with him as he rose to his feet. "It's late, and you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow."

"Big day?"

He smirked. "Oh, yes. Potter's going to try and talk some sense into you."

She rolled her eyes and pulled him toward her room. "You should know by now that's an impossible task."

.

* * *

 **Mentions go to ii-V-I and to all my guests reviewers. Thank you for your continued support. :)**


	28. Moves and Countermoves

**A/N: I'll probably be leaving my company within the month. There are just too many really preposterous things happening. I've gotten another second job now, at an Italian restaurant where I'll be a driver/server. It's a huge menu x.x**

 **The next six or seven chapters will feature excerpts from Eli Wiesel's _Night._ If you haven't read it, you should. It's a short but incredibly important book.**

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _Man comes closer to God through the questions he asks Him, [Moishe the Beadle] liked to say. Therein lies the true dialogue. Man asks and God replies. But we don't understand His replies. We cannot understand them. Because they dwell in the depths of our souls and remain there until we die. The real answers, Eliezer, you will find only within yourself._

 _One day, as I was about to enter the synagogue, I saw Moishe the Beadle sitting on a bench near the entrance._

 _He told me what had happened to him and his companions. The train with the deportees had crossed the Hungarian border and, once in Polish territory, had been taken over by the Gestapo. The train had stopped. The Jews were ordered to get off and onto waiting trucks. The trucks headed toward a forest. There everybody was ordered to get out. They were forced to dig huge trenches. When they had finished their work, the men from the Gestapo began theirs. Without passion or haste, they shot their prisoners, who were forced to approach the trench one by one and offer their necks. Infants were tossed into the air and used as targets for the machine guns. This took place in the Galician forest, near Kolomay. How had he, Moishe the Beadle been able to escape? By a miracle. He was wounded in the leg and left for dead._

* * *

.

"You look tired, Draco," Tracey observed, wearing a worried expression as she gazed across the table on Wednesday morning. Her brown eyes were fretful and searching, eyebrows almost reaching each other as she appraised him.

Theo was beside her, showing no apparent interest whatsoever in the conversation and impassively tending to his plate of eggs as he ignored them all. Draco tried not to look at him, a feat made somewhat easier by the distracting intensity of Blaise's stare.

"Have you been sleeping much?" Daphne asked, and Draco turned uncertainly to look at her, wondering if her question was borne of manipulation or a genuine concern for his well-being.

After a brief moment of deliberation, he shrugged. "Headaches," he answered, and it was the truth.

Blaise snorted into his tea, and Draco shot him a scathing glare. Tracey, too, cut her eyes at the dark-skinned boy, already looking distressed at the thought of a quarrel this early in the morning. "Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey?" she asked.

Draco rolled his eyes. "I'd sooner brew my own Headache Tonic than have to suffer through _her_ interfering questions."

Blaise arched a single elegant eyebrow with a response ready on his lips, but Draco shot him a quelling look: he didn't want to leave the table before the post arrived. As it turned out, the warning was not necessary, for a cacophony of hoots and the fluttering of many winged creatures alerted the students to the arrival of hundreds of owls swooping into the Great Hall. Thankful for the distraction, Draco raised a hand to catch his issue of the _Prophet_ and abandoned his breakfast to pore instead over the front page. Daphne leaned closely to him, grimacing when she saw the headline.

"More changes to Ministry personnel, I see," she noted with interest, reaching to tilt the newspaper in her direction. "Have there been any deaths?"

Draco smirked, yanking the _Prophet_ away from her. "Take out your own subscription if you're so curious, Greengrass."

Daphne turned up her nose, tossing her sheet of blond hair over her shoulder as she straightened out. "No need to be _snooty,_ Draco."

"Hark who's talking," he joked, and when she stuck her tongue out childishly at him, he added, "Such refined, sophisticated humor."

Draco glanced covertly toward Theo, who had not yet spared any of them so much as a single acknowledgment, then turned his eyes to Blaise with a nearly imperceptible nod. _Now._

"No more sweets from mummy?" Blaise goaded suddenly, regarding Draco with a black-eyed stare that glittered with mischief. "Or is she… _indisposed?"_

Tracey turned sharply toward him. "Blaise."

Draco set the newspaper down and picked up his mug, sipping from it casually and keeping his eyes locked with Blaise's own. "No letters from _your_ mother, either, Zabini. Not bothered enough to write her only son, I suppose. Shame. I expect she's too busy being shagged by - what is it, now, her _ninth_ husband?"

Every Slytherin within earshot fell silent, eyes volleying quickly from one boy to the next; even Theo looked up from his breakfast, a forkful of bacon forgotten as he placed his wrists against the edge of the table to watch.

"At least my mother knows to cast her bets where they count, which is more than can be said for certain worthless husbands."

"Right," Draco agreed falsely. "That's a perfectly good excuse to be a slag. Only to be expected, isn't it, seeing as she comes from a family that's gone for broke. How full _is_ her vault at Gringotts now?"

The dark-skinned boy sneered, his voice rising with anger. "Better than being a filthy blood traitor like your mother."

"Perhaps you'd like to spend the rest of the week in detention with Filch?" Draco threatened coolly. "I hear Peeves has been making quite a mess with dung bombs recently."

Blaise jerked his chin toward some point beyond Draco's shoulder. "Perhaps you ought to sit at the Gryffindor table, where you belong."

Draco's face twisted. "High praise, coming from a _half-blood."_

"I'm not a sodding half-blood," said Blaise tightly, his fists balling on the wooden surface of the table.

"But you wouldn't know for sure, would you?" Draco asked, grinning haughtily. "Seeing as your mother has no idea which random bloke sired you."

" _Draco,"_ Daphne hissed.

Blaise turned to her and glared. "I wouldn't act so concerned for him if I were you, Greengrass. Your parents wouldn't be pleased if they knew you were associating with riff-raff like _him."_

Daphne recoiled, her pretty face coloring with embarrassment. "I - what's _that_ supposed to mean?"

Looking smug, Blaise straightened his spine. "Come now, Daph - everyone knows where Malfoy's loyalties lie these days."

Daphne looked pointedly away. Self-preservation.

"And where's that, Zabini?" Draco snarled. "I'm sure we're all _dying_ to know."

Blaise smirked. "With Potter and his Chosen Mates, of course."

Aware of the gathering pressure caused by curious eyes boring into the back of his skull, Draco knew that the argument had drawn attention from the neighboring Hufflepuff table and possibly some of the Ravenclaws as well - but their opinions were inconsequential. The only set of eyes that mattered were the pale green ones that studied him from underneath a long, black-haired fringe. Theodore Nott's attitude was decidedly indifferent toward the situation but he was, at least, listening.

Good.

"How amusing," Draco said disdainfully. "To hear about loyalty from someone who has no qualities that even approach it. Where do your _allegiances_ fall?"

"I know where they _don't_ fall," Blaise replied ambiguously.

Draco chuckled. "If you had any regard for dear old Sofia, you'd reconsider."

Blaise leapt instantly to his feet, and both Tracey and Theo fought to regain their balance as the bench on which they were all seated scraped backward. "Don't you _dare_ threaten my mother, Malfoy!"

Draco stood composedly and pressed his palms flat against the table, leaning toward Blaise as though confiding in him some conspiratorial secret. "When the time comes, it won't be _me_ threatening her. Perhaps you ought to think on that, Zabini."

Blaise snorted, his eyes traveling the length of Draco's body with contempt. "I've done my thinking."

Draco sneered "I'm sure you have," he dismissed, hefting his satchel over one shoulder as he backed away from the Slytherin table. He fixed Theo with a knowing stare, bouncing his eyebrows threateningly at the young Death Eater before sauntering out of the Great Hall with his head held high, ignoring the shocked gazes of every teacher and pupil as he left.

.

* * *

.

Hermione had spent more than half a decade trying in vain convince Harry Potter to come to the library willingly, and in any instance where she _did_ manage to persuade him, it was never achieved with anything less than an hour's worth of incessant nagging on her part. It did not, therefore, seem even remotely fair that she couldn't get him to leave her alone _now._ He'd spent all day rushing to sit next to her during the lessons they shared, always surveying her with a blazing, tenacious sort of look that set her teeth on edge and made her want to smack him with the nearest blunt object.

Unfortunately, no such opportunity arose, and each time he opened his mouth to begin the conversation she knew was inevitable, she would silence him with a withering glance that made him settle unhappily into his seat and direct a furtive sideways glare toward Ron, who, conspicuously, was spending a lot more time in the company of Lavender Brown. Harry had for some reason felt the need to point this fact out to her in hushed undertones during their last lesson of the day, as though it was really necessary - of course, she had _seen_ them partnered together during every class period. It was hardly a revelation.

Not that she cared in any capacity whom Ron spent time with, but she _did_ find it quite hypocritical on his part. If Lavender knew what Ron had said about her only a few short weeks ago in the courtyard, Hermione doubted the girl would have any interest in him. Hermione could resign herself to Lav-Lav and Won-Won's sappy star-gazing and improbable tangling of limbs if it meant that telling him about Draco was a bit easier, but she somehow suspected that wouldn't be the case regardless of Ron's current paramour - if that was, indeed, what they two of them were now.

When Harry finally managed to corner her, it had, _naturally,_ been in the one place where she ever sought refuge. Which brought her to this very aggravating moment in time.

"But, Hermione," Harry whispered furiously, looking both ways as he followed her into yet another section of the library.

"Harry," she warned in return, letting her head fall backward in exasperation as she walked in front of him.

It wasn't that she was trying to avoid Harry. Not _really,_ anyway. She had studying to do, texts to reference, books to check out and return to their places - and she was not going to sit still just so Harry could lecture her on the wisdom of her relationship choices.

"I just don't -" He paused as they crossed paths with another student, stepping around the tall Ravenclaw boy and then hurrying to catch up to her. "I just don't _understand."_

She sighed. "I wish you would trust me, Harry."

"I _do_ trust you, Hermione," he said emphatically. "I don't trust _Malfoy,_ and I don't think you ought to either."

Hermione turned to glare at him. "Would you keep your voice down? And maybe not actually use his name?"

Harry looked over his shoulder, possibly expecting there to be some eavesdropper lurking about, and Hermione took advantage of the opening by scarpering off to the next section.

He rounded the corner seconds later. "Stop dodging me!"

"I'm not _dodging_ you, Harry," Hermione told him, sliding _Elemental Transfiguration for Advanced Students_ back into its place on the shelf. "I just think that the library isn't the safest place to be discussing this."

"Where would you prefer to discuss it, then? Your _common room?"_

"Obviously not," she said, walking around him to head for the _Healing_ section.

"Then quit avoiding me."

"I'm not avoiding you, Harry," she said patiently, not speaking as they crossed through the open array of studying tables and then resuming when they were under the cover of shelving once more. "I just haven't the time to sit and chat about my love life at the moment. My relationship with -" She glanced around. "My _relationship_ is not the most important thing going on right now. I still have research to do."

With that, she began perusing the shelves, running her finger along the multiple spines of books and trying to focus on the titles - which was becoming impossible with Harry _right next to her._ She wondered if it wasn't actually a good thing that she could never get the boys to come to the library, after all. It was turning out to be a considerable distraction.

"Muffliato." Harry pointed his wand discreetly toward the entrance of the _Healing_ section, and Hermione rolled her eyes. "He's not good for you."

"You don't even really know him, Harry," she countered, not looking up. _"Common Magical Ailments…_ no, probably not. I don't think that really applies… _The Healer's Helpmate -_ Oh, I think Mrs. Weasley has this one."

Hermione pulled the book away from the shelf and cracked it open to the Table of Contents.

"That's mental, Hermione, of _course_ I know him. We've spent six bleeding years around him."

"No, we've spent six years _fighting_ him," she corrected absently. "He's really very different when he isn't plotting against us."

"Are you even listening to yourself right now?" Harry demanded. "That's not exactly a brilliant foundation for a relationship."

"Harry," she said, finally meeting his eyes. "I know you're concerned about me, but I'm - I'm sorry, I'm not going to let you tell me how to feel."

"How _do_ you feel, Hermione?" he asked. "Do you love him?"

She laughed. "Oh, yes. Completely smitten."

Harry shook his head. "I'm being serious."

She glared accusingly at him, and he took a step back. "Honestly, Harry, that's very underhanded of you. You're trying to get me to tell you I love him so _you_ can tell _me_ that Draco doesn't love me in return."

"Er -" His eyes skittered away from hers.

Hermione scoffed. "I suppose you didn't expect him to have told me everything you two talked about last night."

"No, I didn't," Harry admitted, deflating.

"Um - do me a favor. Just -" She looked nervously around. "Just stand right there. Don't move, alright?"

Confused, he turned to look over his shoulder again. "Why -"

" _Harry,_ I said don't move," she repeated bossily, and Harry stood stock still, watching with astonishment as Hermione tapped her wand mutely against _The Healer's Helpmate;_ the book shrank until it was roughly palm-sized, and she then tucked it away into her beaded bag.

"I can't _believe_ you just did that," he remarked incredulously. "You're already acting like him!"

"Oh, hush," she snapped. "I'm not _'acting like him',_ we need it for when we go… to wherever we're going from here."

"You're stealing it," he said flatly.

Hermione flushed. "I'm not! I'm only borrowing it, and I wouldn't do it if it weren't absolutely necessary. Anything can happen out there, and I think it's… prudent to know how to heal all manner of injuries."

Harry raised his hands up. "I'd just like to point out that Hermione Granger has officially nicked something from the _library."_

Raising her chin, she gathered the rest of her books and walked past him. "You weren't doing any complaining when I raided Professor Snape's private stores so we could brew Polyjuice Potion."

"That was different," he protested, following her. "Hermione, you can't really believe he's good for you. He's - he's -"

"Just what sort of person do you imagine _is_ good for me, Harry?"

"I dunno - someone who's _smart -"_

"Draco is very intelligent."

"Brave -"

"And I suppose turning against Voldemort doesn't fall into that category?"

" _Loyal,"_ he added, eyebrows raised.

"He _is_ loyal!"

Harry snorted. "You're having me on."

She faced him. "Does the fact that he wasn't on our side before now mean that he doesn't know the meaning of that word? He's very loyal to his parents -"

"Great," said Harry sarcastically. "Compelling argument."

"And to the Order, _and_ Dumbledore."

Harry looked positively mutinous. Hermione spun on her heel, heading for the _Biographies_ section. Harry trailed after her so quickly that he knocked into a younger Gryffindor girl and forced all her books to tumble out of her hands and onto the floor.

"Sorry!" he apologized, ungraciously stepping over the mess so that Hermione couldn't vanish from his sight. "Sorry, I'm sorry -"

"That was rude, Harry," Hermione chided.

He ignored her. "Look, Hermione -" he ducked around another student, pursuing her relentlessly. "What about Ron?"

"I really didn't mean for it to all play out that way, but honestly, do you really think Ron and I would ever have worked?"

"Well - I - _come on,_ you had a date to Hogsmeade with him and you just - I dunno, blew him off!"

"Which wasn't even a problem for you until you found out about - about _him,"_ she said hotly. "It was just another row before then, wasn't it?"

Harry looked down guiltily. "I suppose, yea."

Hermione shook her head and turned away to inspect the shelves. "I don't know what you're hoping to accomplish, Harry."

He expelled a frustrated breath. "I saw you in the Headmistress' office after the last bell. You must have seen the memories, you heard what he said about you."

"Yes, I did. And it was all the same things he used to say before. But he doesn't say them now."

"Right, maybe he doesn't _say_ them, but that how d'you know he doesn't still _think_ them?"

Well. Hermione had her suspicions, of course, but she was not prepared to concede that point to Harry. "Because I don't feel like he does."

"And that's enough for you?" he pressed. "He's not even willing to admit it to his parents, and you're okay with that?"

"Oh, Harry," she said tiredly. "Why would we tell them when we aren't even sure whether it's worth it yet? For heaven's sake, we're not _engaged."_

"Well, thank God for that," he grumbled, and Hermione shot him an icy glare. "But what if it comes to that, Hermione? What if it _does_ go that far and he's still too coward to tell them?"

Hermione shifted awkwardly. "I suppose we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, won't we?"

Harry ran a hand through his already unkempt hair. "Just - why do you like him so much?"

Hermione paused.

 _Good question,_ she thought, casting her memory back to all the time she had spent with him, time that felt limitless to her and yet was so very short on an actual calendar; to all the times Draco had called her beautiful, even when she felt plain and unappealing and unspectacular, even when her hair was wild and there were ink stains on her fingers; the times when he would stop her reading because she needed to eat or sleep or have a moment for herself; the time Draco had comforted her after Ron called her a tease, when he had soothed the crushing, empty heartache until her sobs eventually faded and she could breathe again. She thought of Draco bursting through the trees of the Forbidden Forest, begging Pansy to take him instead - fighting against Crabbe and Goyle's hold and the desperation in his voice when he called her name for the first time; she thought of Draco telling her not to be ashamed, telling her she was different from other girls, _special;_ she remembered the reassuring feel of his hand in hers and their feet twined together in either of their dormitories, the way he would drape his arm protectively over her hip as they slept and the strength he always brought her just by being present. And then she thought of the affection in his uniquely colored eyes when he knew what she was thinking before she even voiced the words, somehow sensing her thoughts and gauging her emotions before she could identify them herself.

Smiling softly, Hermione lifted her gaze to meet Harry's. "He sees me for who I am."

Her best friend did not appear to have an adequate response to that statement. He sighed heavily, his shoulders falling as though admitting defeat. "I dunno, Hermione. I think he's just messing you around."

Of course. It would _never_ be enough, would it?

Hermione flicked an overly-aggressive _Muffliato_ and then glared fiercely at him, taking a step forward even as reflexively backed away.

" _Harry. James. Potter!"_ she began furiously, and his eyes went wide at her sudden vehemence. "I can't believe you have the _nerve_ to stand there and tell me that Draco's just 'messing me around!"

"I - well -"

"I suppose you don't think any man would think I'm worth the _effort,_ do you?"

"No, that's not -"

"It can't be because he likes my personality, can it? No, it couldn't _possibly_ be that he likes me for who I am. I'm _much_ too swotty for him to enjoy my company, aren't I? Too bossy, too annoying, too ugly -"

"Hermione, you _know_ I don't think you're ugly, you're very pretty -"

"But not pretty _enough,_ am I, not pretty enough to hold anyone's attention for long, especially not a wizard like Draco. I find someone with whom I'm actually comfortable, whom I might really, _really_ like - maybe even love someday - someone who understands me and makes me feel good about myself, but _no,_ he's _obviously_ just _messing me around,_ isn't he? It couldn't be anything deeper than that, could it?"

" _No! No,_ that isn't what I meant," he insisted, alarmed.

"And the _worst_ part of it is, you don't even _realize_ how unfair you sound, and _not_ only because you refuse - after _everything -_ to give Draco a chance, but also because you're so obliviously insensitive that you don't realize how _offensive_ you are, how _horribly_ you just insulted me -"

"No, it's nothing to do with _you,_ Hermione -"

"It's _everything_ to do with me!"

He shook his head wildly. "No, no it's _not,_ we're talking about _Malfoy_ here! The same arrogant prat whose father had Buckbeak executed, who's been calling you awful names since we were twelve, the same arrogant prat who hexed your teeth and grassed on us for years and told you your opinion wasn't worth anything because your parents are Muggles, Hermione!"

"He isn't the same arrogant prat, Harry," she said after having taken a moment to breathe. "He's a very _different_ arrogant prat, and one whom I happen to adore at the moment."

"Adore?" he said, aghast.

" _This_ is exactly why I didn't want to tell you, Harry, because I knew how you'd react."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "And I suppose you're going to tell me to stay out of it, just like Malfoy did?"

"That depends on whether you're going to be mature about it. If _this_ is how you're going to behave every time the subject of me and Draco is broached, then yes, I should say that you ought to stay out of it."

"Right, _mature,"_ said Harry. "Because a _mature_ couple hides their relationship from everybody. When are you planning to tell Ron about it, exactly?"

"I -" Hermione searched for the appropriate answer to that question, squaring her shoulders as she looked up at him. "That's not the same thing, and you know it, Harry."

He threw up his hands in irritation and gave a short, condescending laugh. "That's the most pathetic excuse I've _ever_ heard."

"It's completely logical -"

"It's _bollocks,_ Hermione."

She bristled. "It _isn't!"_

Harry held up an imperious finger, and Hermione was struck by how very like herself he looked at that moment. "For more than six years, you've been there to call me on my nonsense. Now, I'm calling you on yours." His voice was stern and authoritative. "Ron's meant to be your best friend, and you're seriously considering keeping this from him?"

Hermione swallowed. "Do you really think he would understand?"

"Well - no, _I_ don't even understand it, really, but I'm not going to, I dunno, quit _speaking_ to you because of it, and I think if you tell him how you feel, Ron will accept it, because he loves you just like I do."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "It'll only cause more problems, Harry - and we have quite enough of those as it is. The last thing we need right now is for Ron to be more upset with me than he already has been."

Harry quirked a brow. "He'll be upset when you tell him, but it'll only be worse if he finds out you kept it from him."

"I think it'll be better if I give him some time to…" She pulled in a deep breath. "To get over the fact that I rejected him, first."

"I'm telling you, you're making a mistake."

"A mistake by choosing Draco, or a mistake by not telling Ron?"

" _Both."_

"I know you're trying to protect me Harry, and I appreciate that -" He looked dubious. " - _I do_ appreciate it. But this is my relationship, and I _know_ you don't agree with any of it, but I'm _asking_ you to respect my decision, Harry. Please?"

He met her request with a pained expression, appearing very much like he wanted to flat-out refuse - but the apprehension that flashed across his bright green eyes was replaced with the tenderness and warmth she had always known from him, and then Harry scratched the back of his neck, saying, "What choice do I have?"

Hermione offered him a grateful smile, throwing her arms around his neck and dragging him into a tight embrace. "Thank you," she said.

Harry rested his cheek against the side of her head. "Just tell me you'll be careful, Hermione."

She laughed, rolling her eyes although he could not possibly have seen it, before stepping back and holding him at arm's length. "The famously reckless Harry Potter," she remarked. "Warning _me_ to be careful."

"Stranger things have happened," he muttered, grimacing.

True.

Hermione turned away from him, feeling light-hearted and relieved as she walked along the alphabetically organized shelves of the _Biographies_ section. Rather than follow her, Harry had settled for stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robe and watching from afar, which she was thankful for - really, she'd learned in the space of an hour that having him trail her about the library very effectively defeated the purpose of study, and she wasn't eager to repeat it. At last, she came to the letter 'G' and began scanning the titles.

After a few moments of browsing, her eyes fell upon a black, age-worn book, the title of which read _Gellert Grindelwald: Dominance and Defeat by Bathilda Bagshot_. Hermione yanked the book from its place at once and began flipping through it. Bathilda Bagshot was perhaps the most highly respected and credible Magical Historians to have ever been published, and the fact that she'd written a book on _this_ subject was as much as Hermione could possibly have hoped for.

"Perfect," she whispered to herself, and then turned to a page at random. She gasped out loud, gripping the book hard with excitement: there, printed in the top-right corner, was the very symbol that was inked into _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._

Harry was at her side in a second. "What is it?"

She glanced up, the familiar, heady anticipation of being on the heels of a huge discovery coursing through her veins.

"Harry, this is a biography of Gellert Grindelwald, from Dumbledore's memories," she explained, turning the book in her hands so that she could show him. "And _this_ symbol is in the children's book that Dumbledore left me!"

Comprehension dawned immediately on Harry's face. "I recognize it. Viktor Krum got into an argument with Luna's dad because he was wearing it at Bill and Fleur's wedding - Krum said it was Grindelwald's symbol. He was furious about it, actually - Grindelwald killed one of his family members."

Hermione remembered that Viktor had gotten into some sort of spat with Xenophilius, but a symbol was the last thing she would have thought it would be about. "Luna's dad couldn't possibly have known what it meant," she said, and Harry hummed his agreement.

Closing the book, Hermione thrust her school bag unceremoniously into Harry's hands and then stepped around him before he could object. "I'll only be a moment," she said over her shoulder. "I'm just going to check this out with Madame Pince - find us a table, won't you?"

She found the tight-lipped and notoriously unfriendly librarian standing behind her desk, using her wand to sort through a teetering pile of recently returned books and looking very much like she did not want to be disturbed. Hermione's relationship with Madame Pince was strained at the best of times and blatantly hostile at the worst, for the older witch always seemed to suspect Hermione of wrongdoing - which, she acknowledged privately, was the truth in many ways, and no matter how respectful she tried to be, there had never been an astoundingly good rapport between the two of them.

"Good afternoon, Madam Pince," greeted Hermione politely, approaching the desk with Grindelwald's biography held aloft.

Madame Pince eyed Hermione over the rim of her spectacles, her lips thinning instantly. "Oh, _you_ again," she said nastily. "What do you need?"

Hermione forced a smile. "Sorry to bother you, Madame Pince." Even though it's your job. "I'd like to check this book out, please."

The older witch summoned the biography into her spidery hands, tapping her wand against the spine before levitating it back toward her.

"Thank you, and -" Hermione withdrew a slip of parchment from the pocket of her school robes. "I was hoping you could request these records from the _Daily Prophet's_ archives, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

She stepped forward to hand it to her, and Madame Pince accepted the parchment with obvious frustration, which was customary - but the reaction that Hermione was faced with was not at all what she had expected.

Madame Pince looked up so quickly that her glasses very nearly slid off the end of her nose, her dark eyes narrowed and accusatory. "Is this some sort of _joke,_ young lady?"

"No, madame," Hermione rushed out, confused. "Of course not."

Madame Pince clicked her tongue impatiently. "Then why in Merlin's name would two students have requested records from _twenty-five_ years ago, especially ones of _this_ gruesome nature, just twenty-four hours apart from one another?"

Hermione's heart quickened into a sharp, staccato beat against her constricting chest, the elation she had felt only moments before banished cruelly by the librarian's words, and her eyes darted down to the parchment which Madame Pince was now brandishing like a death warrant.

"Another student requested these archives?" Hermione asked, failing to keep her voice steady.

 _Yesterday?_

 _._

* * *

.

" _Get out."_

"Professor, I just have a few questions -"

"You are very quickly becoming the bane of my existence, Miss Granger," he said irritably. "I have three students in detention this evening who will be here at any moment."

Hermione stole a glance at her watch. "Er, it's only fifteen minutes until 8 o'clock, sir, and it's really very important."

Snape dropped his quill with more force than was strictly necessary, causing an angry red blot of ink to drip onto some unfortunate student's essay. He scooped his wand from the surface of the desk and cast a Silencing Charm over the doorway. "You have two minutes, and this had _better_ be a matter of life and death."

Hermione paced a bit further into the room. "Well, I was only wondering - did you happen to - er -"

"Spit it out, Miss Granger."

"Did you mention anything to Draco about who Mathilda Greene is?"

Snape's eyebrows crashed together. "Do you mean to tell me you've kept it a secret even though it concerns his family directly?"

"I'm going to tell him," she said. "I just, haven't yet -"

"Idiot girl," he said unkindly. "You are playing with fire."

"But, sir, _you_ didn't tell him either," Hermione pointed out defensively.

"As I've already explained, it was completely irrelevant until recently," he told her. "If I neglect to tell him, it's for his own protection; if _you_ neglect to tell him, it is nothing short of betrayal. I would advise you to start practicing the grievous honesty that befits your character before you regret it."

Leave it to Snape to disguise his compliments as derision.

"I only wanted to do a bit of research before I brought it up, sir, so I requested the articles from the _Daily Prophet_ archives -"

"My word was not sufficient, Miss Granger?" he asked, and Hermione wondered if the slight curling of his lips was disdain, or perhaps because he was making some sort of wry joke.

"I thought it would be wise to be thorough," she replied. "And I thought Draco may not believe me if I didn't have proof."

"Indeed," he said as he looked back down at the essay, which was now properly defaced by a horrid ink stain; Snape ignored it and began scrawling a short remark in the margin.

"Er - Professor, the reason I ask is because Madame Pince said that another student had already requested those archives. Yesterday."

That got his attention. Professor Snape stilled his hand and peered at her from beneath his lank, oily hair, waiting for her to continue.

"And, well, I just thought it was exceptionally odd, and Madame Pince thought so as well because she asked me if I was playing some sort of prank by asking for them. It can't be a coincidence, can it, because who else would have a reason to seek out that information? It's older than any student is, after all -"

"Quit _babbling,_ Miss Granger," he interrupted, looking quite troubled as he leaned into his chair. "I cannot fathom which student might have even heard the name Mathilda Greene, much less be curious enough about her death to request those records."

"But isn't there some way I can find out, sir?"

"All requests made to Madame Pince are kept in strictest confidence."

She hesitated. "But, perhaps you -"

" _No,_ I can't," he said crossly, and Hermione directed her eyes to the floor, chastised.

"I'm sorry, Professor. I just can't think of a reason why another student would ask about those archives, unless…"

The next time he spoke, it was with a much softer tone.

"I realize that you have plenty of cause to fear the implications, Miss Granger, but you must consider how it would look if I expressed any interest in such things, particularly after you've already requested them under your name. There is no way I can assist. You understand?"

Hermione nodded, feeling the disenchanting sting of failure as she readjusted the strap of her schoolbag; Professor Snape rose from his chair, snatching the parchment off his desk before he stood in front of her.

"However, if my memory serves me correctly, you have never allowed the lack of assistance from authority to hinder your… investigations, " he said with an expression of mild amusement. "As it happens, this is _your_ make-up assignment."

Hermione took the proffered essay, disappointed and yet unsurprised to see that an 'E' was scratched at the top of the parchment in Snape's spiky handwriting, partially obscured by the hideous ink stain that he hadn't bothered to _Scourgify._ Glancing up at him, she asked, "Have you ever given an Outstanding on an assignment?"

"No," he answered simply, gesturing toward the archway. "Now, get out."

.

* * *

.

Lessons hadn't been easy for Draco. He hadn't felt so socially displaced since the beginning of term when all the children of Death Eaters had scorned him and made him feel unwelcome in the very place he usually felt so at ease - and most of them still did, of course. But during breakfast, Draco had all but renounced his former loyalties in front of everyone at the Slytherin table and, as expected, had been met with the wariness that accompanied his housemate's admittedly accurate conjecture as to where his allegiances really did lie.

But there was nothing for it. Pretending to be undecided about which side of the war he stood on no longer benefited the cause.

Blaise sat with Theo during classes, which _had_ been the intention from the go, but it didn't mean Draco felt any less isolated when Daphne made a point to avoid him and Tracey worked alongside him but did not speak. He couldn't blame them. It's what their parents would have asked them to do, and really, it was just another part of their natural inclination to secure their own safety.

They didn't want to die. Draco didn't want them to, either.

He found himself concocting schemes to help them, if that was indeed possible to do, but Draco wasn't in any position to offer them sanctuary. Perhaps Hermione, and definitely Potter… but, no. Tracey, Daphne, and Blaise would have to express some sort of desire to _be_ helped, and so far, they hadn't.

Filing away those thoughts for later contemplation, Draco directed his attention back to the book that lay open on his lap: _Night._

He hadn't a lot of time to dedicate to reading today, which was frustrating because the book in itself was so very short and yet he still hadn't made it past the first chapter. It was… gripping, Draco supposed was the word to describe it - fascinating in the way that buildings were mesmerizing when they burned, captivating in all the ways that appealed to a person's morbid curiosity. Draco would never have imagined that the plight of a bunch of Muggles would interest him, but something about their struggle had slowly begun to strike a chord.

He would never admit this to Hermione, of course.

He checked the clock: ten after eight. She should have been back by now, and he was eager for her to return, which wasn't new. Since before their relationship had really gotten started, Draco had waited every night for her to return to the common room, though back then it was more out of suspicion than anything else, a need to know what she was doing and just who she was doing it with than a real desire to be around her.

The portrait swung open, and Draco hurried to shrink _The Pure-blood Directory_ , hiding it in his trouser pocket and replacing it with the Potions text that was ready on the arm of the sofa. Hermione appeared in the archway and offered Draco a calm smile when she saw that he'd been waiting for her. His heart skipped.

"That was clever, what you and Blaise did at breakfast," she said wryly, dropping both of her bags - one heavy and bursting at the seams with books, the other one made of dainty beadwork - onto the armchair.

"Moves and countermoves, Granger," he replied, momentarily distracted by the subtle curve of her waist as she shed her school robes. "You made a detour coming back from the Great Hall."

"I had to visit -"

"The library?"

"Hmph." Her hand disappeared into the beaded bag and, after a moment of rooting around, she extracted a thin, black book and sat down on the sofa. "I've found something. Look."

Hermione flipped to one of the pages she had already marked for reference and handed it to him. It was that stupid ruddy symbol she'd been on about since yesterday, but what was it doing in a biography about Gellert Grindelwald?

Realizing that Hermione was waiting for some sort of reaction, Draco looked at her and shrugged.

"Potter said that Grindelwald and Dumbledore were close when they were young. It's Dumbledore's book. Clearly, he drew the symbol when he was a teenager."

"Come off it, Draco," she challenged. "Dumbledore gives you a memory of his legendary duel against Grindelwald, and gives me a children's book with Grindelwald's symbol drawn on one of the pages. Don't you think it's strange?"

"I think that many things about Dumbledore were strange. Irredeemably strange, actually," he said flippantly. "His choice of dress, for instance."

"I always thought his robes were quite nice," she said airily, closing the book and setting on the table.

Draco tilted his head mockingly at her. "Well?"

She looked at him, confused. "Well, what?"

"Aren't you going to ask me about my day?"

Hermione laughed, her eyes dancing. "How was your day, Draco?"

He threw his arm over the back of the sofa, settling languidly into the corner. "Adequate."

" _Adequate?_ And you made it sound so special."

"You didn't let me finish," he sniffed, and Hermione raised her eyebrows, suppressing a grin. "Blaise stole the Beater's bat twice and tried to hit me with a bludger."

Hermione tried to hide her laughter behind her hand. "That seems… excessive. He's really playing the part, isn't he?"

"Oh, yes," Draco said matter-of-factly. "He's milking it for all it's worth. I… _might_ have made some unnecessary comments about his mother."

"Bastard."

"So glad I can amuse you, Granger."

"I'm -" Giggle. " - I'm sorry - how was the rest of practice?"

"Miserable," he said, sighing theatrically. "They all hate me. Though I'd wager Slytherin's got this season in the bag."

"Oh, _really?"_ she asked, still smiling.

"Think it's funny, do you? Just who are _you_ going to be cheering for come November?"

"Gryffindor, of course."

"More fool you," he said superiorly.

Hermione scoffed. "I don't recall Slytherin winning any matches against Gryffindor."

Draco leaned toward her. "Yes, but you lot are missing your star player."

"Harry's still on the team, Malfoy."

"Not _Potter._ I'm talking about the She-Weasley."

" _Ginny_ was replaced by Dean Thomas, and he's very good."

"You don't know what makes a good player, anyway," Draco taunted. "You can't even stay in the air for more than five minutes."

Hermione raised her chin. "How would you know if I can fly or not? You haven't seen me on a broom since first year."

"Because you haven't _been_ on a broom since first year."

She made an indignant noise. "I've flown on a Hippogriff, _and_ a Thestral - which, by the way, I couldn't even _see_ at the time."

"Not the same thing," he told her, shaking his head. "Just admit that you can't do _everything,_ Granger."

"Never," she said, toeing off her shoes and folding her legs underneath her. "So, now you ask me how _my_ day was."

Draco couldn't stop himself laughing. Sometimes she was impossibly cute. When she wasn't being bossy, that is.

"Fine. How was your day, Hermione?"

"Harry convinced me that we can't be together," she said seriously.

He frowned. "That isn't even remotely funny."

"Mmmh. It is to me," she said with an impish grin, tilting her head as she reached to brush the silvery hair away from his forehead.

His gaze flicked down to the delicate curve of her lips. "We have very different ideas of what constitutes humor."

"Yes, well - he isn't going to tell Ron."

Draco narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"I've asked him not to. I think it'll be better if we wait."

"No, it won't," he said firmly. "He's already been trying to make you jealous."

"But it isn't working," she said pointedly. "Lavender is…"

"Repulsive?" he supplied. "Hideous? Revolting?"

"I was going to say vapid."

"That too," Draco agreed. "But that doesn't explain why you want it a secret."

"I want him to forget about… well, you know. The idea of us - that is, the idea of Ron and me."

Draco glared at her. He did not even like hearing the _words_ 'Ron and me' come out of her mouth. "And you think Brown is going to accomplish that?"

It was this sort of talk that made him wary enough to want to throw up his Shields - headaches be damned.

"I think it's worth a shot," she said, and Draco gave her a discerning look. But she seemed to know what he had been thinking, for she added, "Trust me, you have nothing to worry about."

Draco shifted the hand that had been resting on the back of the sofa to brush against the soft skin of her cheek, his fingers trailing a path along the side of her jaw; he tilted her chin upward and watched golden brown eyes flick back and forth between his own. "Tell me."

"I don't want anybody else but you, Draco," Hermione said softly.

She always knew what he wanted to hear.

"More," he said, and the sight of her even teeth coming down on her lip was both erotic and endearing.

"You have me, Draco Malfoy," she promised. "All of me."

"Only me?" he asked huskily, the arousal in his voice evident even to his own unfocused ears.

"Only you."

It was all he needed.

Draco hauled her against his chest, weaving his hands into her impossible mess of bushy hair and pressing his mouth hard against hers. He pulled her head backward, sliding his tongue along the supple flesh of her bottom lip, demanding entry; Hermione obliged, as she always did, the allure of her pliancy always too much for him and yet never enough, her yielding body always the ultimate sinful indulgence, the highest satisfaction that Draco could never have too many times - there was nothing like it in the world, he was sure of that, nothing more gratifying than for her to give herself so willingly to him. He would never deserve her, he knew, but Hermione was for some reason unconcerned about how much better than him she truly was, how much better she could do than desire someone who could never hope to shine as bright as she.

Draco tore his lips away from hers, using his grip on her hair to expose her neck, bending his head low and sucking lightly on the skin beneath her ear; a sharp intake of breath was his permission to use more force, and Hermione's gasp turned quickly into a moan - the most enthralling, enrapturing sound, a sound Draco thought he would do anything just to elicit from her. Using his opposite hand, he pulled at the collar of her Oxford.

"Take this off," he said, breathing heavily into her ear and revelling in the resultant shudder as she hurried to obey.

Draco leaned backward, watching as she yanked her Hogwarts sweater over her head, and unfastening the buttons of his own shirt as she fumbled with her tie. When at last her Oxford was open, he reached to push the fabric off her shoulders - then stopped, his hungry gaze wandering over the teasing vision of her partially concealed torso and the swell of her pert breasts, small and easily contained by a simple cotton bra and yet irresistible despite their modest size. Sometimes half-clothed was better. "That's enough."

She stayed her hand and gave him an inquiring look, but his answer to the silent question was forgotten as soon as she claimed his lips with hers. One of Draco's hands slid possessively around the nape of her neck, curling back into her hair and twisting - she moaned against him, leaning further into his body and moving for his belt buckle; Draco snatched up her wrist, meaning to push her backward onto the sofa, but Hermione was already crawling into his lap, straddling him with her legs and clutching the sides of his face as her mouth slanted fervidly over his.

"Mmh, I don't think so, Granger," he said, pulling away and forcing her body upright.

Hermione arched an eyebrow, inching backward so that she could undo his belt. "I've already told you I'd get you back for the other night."

He dragged her bra down, leaving her breasts open for attention and leaning forward to slide his tongue over one bare nipple, sucking gently at it when it hardened under his ministration; she gasped, bracing her hands on his shoulders, and he could already tell she was losing control.

"Do you think you have the patience to exact revenge?" he asked, taking her by the waist and jerking her body against his, keeping his eyes locked with her own as he dragged a hand down the flat of her stomach.

"You underestimate me." She grinned, but when Draco flicked his thumbs under the hem of her skirt, feather-light touches against her hip bones, her shiver belied all the bravado.

Draco smirked. "I don't think you do have the patience, Granger," he whispered, moving to the opposite breast, taking the nipple in his mouth and scraping his teeth against it. He tightened his grip, holding her steady as he ground his pelvis against hers - and the sound of her whine might have been funny if it wasn't so damned hot. Draco lifted her, turning her body so that he could toss her sideways, and when her back came down on the cushion of the sofa he reached under her skirt, pulling her knickers down and away; she sat up, unbuttoning his trousers, not bothering to wait for him to remove them before she reached into the fabric and took his erection in her hands. Draco almost growled but resisted the shock at her brazenness - she'd never been this daring, and before he knew it, before he could think to protest, she had pressed him back against the sofa and was straddling him again.

"Shit," he groaned, throwing his head back as she sank onto his cock. She seemed to be relishing the feel of him, for she halted, kissing him passionately before she began to slowly move - much _too_ slowly, gliding up and down with a tormenting speed. Draco tangled his fist into her curls, pulling backward so he could see her face, watching as her eyes fell shut, the tell-tale sign of pleasure; he thrust upward, fighting against her pace, and she laughed - a sultry and sensuous chuckle.

"Now who's impatient?" asked Hermione, her tone thick with lust.

Draco was amazed at her restraint.

"Fine, do your worst," he gruffly, gritting his teeth with need but allowing her to ride him, allowing himself to enjoy her warmth and tightness, relinquishing his hold on her hair and slipping his hands underneath her skirt, resting his palms on her thighs but allowing her to set the movement. She'd never be able to keep it up, he knew. Her movement was inexperienced and just slightly hesitant, it was only a matter of time before she pushed herself past the point of control - but her soft moans were beginning to weaken his resolve.

Draco held her gaze as she rocked against him, observing her flushed skin, the line of her teeth that was just barely visible beyond her parted lips, her half-lidded eyes - waiting until her movements became more frantic, waiting until she started to pick up speed before he grasped her hips and held them steady, smirking when she began to object.

"Oh, Draco, don't," she begged, and her voice was breathless and gasping.

Draco said nothing, just stared into her rapidly darkening eyes as she struggled to find her release, fighting impossibly for something he was not ready to offer. He drove into her with a tortuous rhythm, savoring her, savoring her expressions, watching as she caught her lip between her teeth and whimpered something incoherent.

" _Now_ who's impatient?" he asked, and Hermione moaned in frustration, her nails digging into his shoulders. When she didn't answer, Draco stopped moving entirely, and she let out an anguished noise, pitching forward and burying her face into the crook of his neck.

"Tell me again," he requested softly, and there was no need for him to clarify.

"I don't want anyone but you, Draco," she whined. "Dammit."

Draco groaned into her ear, scooting downward and angling her hips away from his, lifting her so he could give her what she wanted - pulling her against his body and pounding into her as he finally allowed himself to lose control, his pace hurried and frantic, fueled by the sound of her gasping in time with his thrusts. Hermione carded her hands through his hair, sending prickles of heat to every nerve ending in his body when she pulled the lobe of his ear into her mouth, biting gently at first, and then harder when she approached her climax. It seemed that her whole body tightened when she came, and Hermione's pleasured moans were enough to push him over the edge. He groaned as he released himself, welcoming the comfortable feel of her weight as she collapsed, spent, against him.

Draco rested his head against the back of the sofa, exhausted and panting, his arms sliding underneath her Oxford and encasing the small of her back; Hermione sighed and wrapped her hands around his neck.

"Draco?"

"Yes?" More of a grunt than a word.

"Will you read with me?"

He almost chuckled, but he hardly had the energy. "Of course," was all he said, and he could smell the calming aroma of her flowery Muggle shampoo, could feel the tickle of her breath in his ear and the beat of her heart against his chest.

Draco Malfoy would go to bed a happy wizard.

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _And then one day all foreign Jews were expelled from Sighet. And Moishe the Beadle was a foreigner._

 _Crammed into cattle cars by the Hungarian police, they cried silently. Standing on the station platform, we too were crying. The train disappeared over the horizon, all that was left was thick, dirty smoke._

 _Behind me, someone said, sighing, "What do you expect? That's war…"_

 _Thereafter, life seemed normal once again. London radio, which we listened to every evening, announced encouraging news: the daily bombings of Germany and Stalingrad, the preparation of the Second Front. And so we, the Jews of Sighet, waited for better days that were surely soon to come._

 _The people were saying, "The Red Army is advancing with giant strides… Hitler will not be able to harm us, even if he wants to…"_

 _Yes, we even doubted his resolve to exterminate us._

 _Annihilate an entire people? Wipe out a population dispersed throughout so many nations? So many millions of people! By what means! In the middle of the twentieth century!_

* * *

.

 **A/N: DarlingDraeni and decadenceofmysoul get the dedications this chapter.**


	29. Flying Lessons

_**Night**_

* * *

 _On the third night, as we were sleeping, some of us sitting, huddled against each other, some of us standing, a piercing cry broke the silence:_

 _"Fire! I see a fire! I see a fire!"_

 _There was a moment of panic. Who had screamed? It was Mrs. Schachter. Standing in the middle of the car, in the faint light filtering through the windows, she looked like a withered tree in a field of wheat. She was howling, pointing through the window:_

 _"Look! Look at this fire! This terrible fire! Have mercy on me!"_

 _Some pressed against the bars to see. There was nothing. Only the darkness of night._

 _It took us a long time to recover from this harsh awakening. We were still trembling, and with every screech of the wheels, we felt the abyss opening beneath us. Unable to still our anguish, we tried to reassure each other:_

 _"She is mad, poor woman…"_

 _Someone had placed a damp rag on her forehead. But she nevertheless continued to scream:_

 _"Fire! I see a fire!"_

 _Her little boy was crying, clinging to her skirt, trying to hold her hand:_

 _"It's nothing, Mother! There's nothing there… Please sit down…" He pained me even more than did his mother's cries._

 _Some of the women tried to calm her:_

 _"You'll see, you'll find your husband and sons again… in a few days…"_

 _She continued to scream and sob fitfully._

 _"Jews, listen to me," she cried. "I see a fire! I see flames, huge flames!_

 _It was as though she were possessed by some evil spirit._

 _We tried to reason with her, more to calm ourselves, to catch our breath, than to soothe her:_

 _"She is hallucinating because she is thirsty, poor woman… that's why she speaks of flames devouring her…"_

 _._

* * *

 _._

" _No!_ I won't do it!"

" _Ginevra Molly Weasley!"_

" _No!_ It's not fair that I'm the only one who isn't allowed to do magic, and yet you're asking _me_ to do the all the chores. _You do it!"_

"And I suppose you'd rather live in squalor -"

"You're only trying to keep me occupied, _mum!"_

 _ **SLAM.**_

" _BLOOD TRAITORS, HALF-BREEDS AND MUTTS -"_

"Ginevra, you get back here _this instant!"_

"What are you going to do, _ground_ me from leaving the house?"

" _SULLYING THE HOUSE OF MY FATHERS, BESMIRCHING THE MOST ANCIENT AND NOBLE HOUSE -"_

"When you are under this roof, you _will_ obey my rules, Ginevra!"

"I never asked to be here!"

" _MUDBLOODS AND SWINE, SCUM OF THE EARTH -"_

"You're here because it isn't _safe_ at Hogwarts -"

The voices were drawing nearer with every stomp of the Weasley daughter's feet.

"You're a control freak, more like!"

There was a disembodied gasp of shock. _"Ginevra Weasley -"_

" _Leave me alone!"_

" _FILTHY MONGRELS, VILE AND REPULSIVE CREATURES -"_

The door to the library swung open and, with a swirl of bright red hair, Ginny spun to lock it, seizing the closest chair she could get her hands on and wedging the furniture underneath the handle; the door rattled ineffectually and did not give way.

"Ginny, you open this door!"

"No!"

" _DISHONOR TO THE NAME OF PURITY -"_

" _Open it, or I'll blast it through!"_

"Well _go on, then! Go right ahead, mum, because I'm standing just on the other side!"_

"You ungrateful -"

" _CONTAMINATION! CORRUPTION! DISGRACE AND DEFILEMENT -"_

" _Oh, SHUT UP, you miserable old wench!_ This isn't over, Ginny!"

Molly's quick footsteps faded down the hallway, presumably having gone to set the portrait to rights, and Ginny heaved an exasperated sigh, glaring at the door for a long moment before her shoulders finally fell with exhaustion. When she turned to face the rest of the library, however, Narcissa could see that the younger witch's face was still taught with anger and indignance, which was not mollified in the least when Ginny realized that the room was already being occupied.

"Oh. I didn't know you would be in here, Mrs. Malfoy," Ginny greeted tightly, folding her arms across her chest. She was obviously not in a hurry to run off, for she paced toward the threadbare sofa and lowered herself into it with a controlled poise that Narcissa, at least, could respect.

The girl somehow managed to be composed even when she was being fierce. An admirable quality.

Narcissa offered her an ironic smile. "It would seem that we are both seeking solitude."

Ginny gave a very unladylike snort and said, "Fat chance, in this house." She turned a set of warm brown eyes toward Narcissa. "What are you hiding from?"

"Alastor," Narcissa responded, lying impulsively.

Ginny gave her a long and discerning look. "No, I don't think you are," she decided. "You handle Mad-Eye just fine. I think you're hiding from your husband."

Narcissa tensed and hoped that it wasn't visible. Ginny was oddly astute for her age, more shrewd and perceptive than many an adult, and certainly more than most in the Order. Excepting Alastor, of course - and Remus, if Narcissa was honest.

"Lucius isn't any better, then," the girl said with cold satisfaction. "Good. I'm glad to hear it."

It was this sort of statement that Narcissa would usually meet with a fittingly scathing remark, but found that, in this instance, she could not. It wasn't that she sought approval from Ginny, but… well, wasn't much of the girl's torment over the years owed, at least partially, to Narcissa? She had not always been privy to Lucius' schemes, of course, but there was still so much culpability, so much residual shame. So much guilt.

Wasn't she, in some way, responsible?

"Would it…" Narcissa began haltingly. "Would it mean anything to you if I apologized on Lucius' behalf?"

 _No,_ she thought immediately, disgusted even by her own arrogance. _Because Lucius would never feel remorse for what he did._

Ginny appeared to be on precisely the same wavelength.

"What would you know about it?" she snapped. "You can't presume to _apologize_ when you have no idea what it was like." The girl snarled dangerously and leaned forward, clutching the arm of the sofa and cushion in either hand, her long nails sinking into the fabric. "You're only trying to make yourself feel better about what a piece of utter rubbish your dear husband is. I was nearly killed because of Lucius, by a bloody _book_ that belonged to your beloved Lord."

Narcissa repressed her urge to wince.

"What would _you_ know about being possessed by something so evil that it drains your life source? Nothing."

Narcissa drew in a fortifying breath and met Ginny's burning eyes with a level gaze. "Perhaps not," she allowed. "But I do know something about what it's like to be forced into submission by that which is out of your control. And I know what it means to have everything that's good in your life snatched from under your feet."

The younger witch narrowed her eyes at Narcissa, considering.

"But you chose the life you lead. You chose your husband and raised your son to become a Death Eater." Ginny pulled a disgusted face, though to whom or at what it was directed was not clear - she seemed to be focusing more on the bookcase than Narcissa herself. "You want me to feel sorry for you because you've had your castle taken away from you and all your gold seized by the Ministry - rotten luck for you, then, because _my_ family's barely scraped by for as long as I've lived. You won't get any pity from me."

"I seek pity from no one," said Narcissa frigidly. "My family's assets have not been frozen. In any case, those losses are hardly the ones I mean." She swept an arm upward, gesturing toward the house at large and the state of its neglect and disrepair. "My complaints are not for the lack of finer things, or else wouldn't I return to my home and beg the Dark Lord's forgiveness?"

Ginny looked vaguely unsure of her own argument. "Not if you thought he'd thank you for it with murder."

"Not my own murder," Narcissa replied, allowing her hand to return to the armchair as she gazed at the younger witch. She realized, then, that this conversation was the first that she'd ever had with Ginny Weasley and that it was a disaster. Still, this fact did nothing to assuage Narcissa's ire. "Though I suppose your understanding would be too much to hope for, given the way you treat your mother."

Ginny's mouth dropped open but promptly snapped shut. The expression that came over her face, then, was both petulant and ferocious. _Gryffindors,_ thought Narcissa, though she gave no spoken voice to her private taunt, _always so demonstrative with their emotions._

"Don't try to tell me what's what in _my_ life," said Ginny angrily. "You can't decide how I should treat my mother when your own family is in tatters itself."

"Your mother is doing what she thinks is best for your safety," Narcissa countered, ignoring the painful jab that held so much truth; she would never let on how badly it had hurt. "She would do _anything_ to protect you."

"You don't even _know_ my mother!" Ginny fired back, voice rising. "What, you think that a few months locked in this dingy old rathole is enough to know who she is and what she's like? What she's _really_ like? It isn't. You don't know her, or _me_ for that matter."

Narcissa raised her eyebrows. "I am also a mother, Ginevra. I don't need to know anything about Molly Weasley to understand her fears where her children are concerned. What is it about your mother's love for you that makes you resent her so?"

"Because!" Ginny shouted, launching herself out of her chair.

Narcissa very nearly drew her wand to defend herself but realized seconds later that Ginny did not mean to attack her. Rather, the girl began walking back and forth in front of the sofa, looking everywhere but at the person with whom she was speaking.

"She's separated me from my friends, from Harry - at the very moment he most needs support. He needs to know that I'm there for him no matter what, he needs to know that I'd never leave him even when things are as dark as they are now. He's got the weight of the entire bloody Wizarding World resting on his shoulders!"

Narcissa tracked the girl's movements, keeping her face calm and impassive as Ginny gesticulated wildly with her hands.

"And it's not as if people are exactly _jumping_ to help him - there's the DA, of course, but Harry would never have let them put themselves in danger, and after that, there's only Ron and Hermione. And my brother - well, he's useless, isn't he? Hermione's been so preoccupied with -"

The girl stopped abruptly and it was clear to Narcissa that the girl had just narrowly avoided some sort of slip.

" - with _school._ Dumbledore's gone, and everybody else is just waiting for Harry to pull some amazingly heroic move and save them all. They're so busy obsessing over the fact that he's _The Chosen One_ that they completely forget he's a person, too, a wizard in his own right and not some - some _great defender_ whose only purpose is to kill off Voldemort."

Narcissa cringed, her eyes falling briefly shut at the blatant use of the name.

"Even them!" Ginny waved her hand furiously toward the door leading to the hallway. "The rest of the Order aren't loyal to _Harry,_ they're loyal to the sodding war effort. That's the only thing they care about - they don't give a damn whether Harry lives or dies, not _really,_ not so long as Voldemort gets finished."

Ginny made a noise of frustrated that fell somewhere between a choke and a growl. "Harry needs to know that he's loved for who he is, and not what he's _useful_ for - he needs to know that I _care_ about him, that _somebody_ other than Ron and Hermione cares about him. And who the hell knows what's going to happen while I'm shut up here in this Merlin-forsaken house? I can't _do_ anything from here, I can't help, I can't _be there_ for him! Everything is at risk, everything and everyone. My family, my friends, my boyfriend -"

The girl finally stopped pacing, and when she turned to face Narcissa fully, her eyes were full of despair.

"What if I never see him again?"

So there it was, the true reason that lay beneath all of Ginny's anger. She was terrified.

Ginny sank back into the sofa and directed her gaze to the floor, shaking her head. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Malfoy," she muttered softly. "I didn't mean to just unload it all. You probably don't even care."

Narcissa was silent for a few moments, gathering her thoughts and wondering just how to respond. It should have been easier, for the girl's fears mirrored her own in so many ways, and yet Narcissa felt that there were no words sufficient to calm Ginny's doubts.

"Do not apologize, Ginevra," Narcissa said finally, idly turning her wedding ring around one slender finger. "I cannot claim that the safety of Harry Potter is my foremost concern. That will always belong to my son. But he is… just a boy. A boy whose responsibilities weigh far more than they ought. I… wish it were not so."

Ginny's eyes flew to Narcissa's, looking skeptical.

"There is nothing I can do or say to make you feel any more confident," the older witch continued, maintaining eye contact and hoping it was enough to show the girl that she was sincere. "I know this because you and I share many of the same fears. There is no use mincing words, so I will say this plainly: there's nothing to be done, except to offer your support when it is asked of you."

"That's your sage advice?" Ginny asked, but her tone lacked malice.

Narcissa raised a single, delicate eyebrow.

"Do you not believe I would do anything to be with my son? That I would not leave this place and be at his side, to at least support him if I could not change his mind? Many times, I have asked him to leave the country, to flee for his life and abandon this war, and yet he refuses. It has taken me… a long time to accept that Draco has followed a path I would much rather he did not and to accept that I cannot leave this house, that there is nothing I can do to help him. But I _am_ stuck in this house, no better than a prisoner of the Order's, it would seem - and I _cannot_ help him, no matter how desperately I want to - and Draco _has_ chosen his path. Instead of mourning it, I try my best to be proud, and although it is hidden quite deeply underneath my anxiety and distress, I am very proud of my son."

Something gleamed briefly in Ginny's eyes and was gone too fast for Narcissa to interpret it.

"Are you?" Ginny asked quietly. "Are you proud of Draco?"

This was a double-sided question, Narcissa knew, but she could not imagine what it's dual meaning could possibly be.

"Yes."

"No matter what he did? Even if you didn't agree with it?"

Narcissa fought to keep her indifference and was vaguely aware that she was failing miserably at it. "The time for me to be ashamed of my son's actions has come and passed, Ginevra."

Ginny pursed her lips and seemed, for some reason, amused. "What if he wasn't following… shall we say, a _conventional_ path?"

Glaring, Narcissa said, "I'll thank you not to toy with me, young lady. I may not be your mother, but I certainly won't allow you to -"

"What if Draco was gay?" Ginny asked suddenly, looking so superior that Narcissa had the urge to strangle her.

But Narcissa made no move to throttle the girl; instead, she merely blinked and sat up straight in the armchair, squaring her shoulders in order to maintain some semblance of composure.

"I - well." She racked her brain for anything like an appropriate answer to that question.

 _But she couldn't possibly, surely she couldn't mean that Draco was - but Lucius would disown him -_

"I suppose I would ask that he use a surrogate," Narcissa said with a dignified sobriety that utterly belied how discomfited she truly was. "Adopt, perhaps?"

Ginny burst out laughing, her smile suddenly radiant and her freckled complexion flushed with glee. "So your only concern is whether you would have grandchildren?"

"As any mother is," sniffed Narcissa, as regally as she could possibly manage. "Ginevra, are you indeed telling me that Draco is gay?"

The girl threw herself backward into the cushions of the sofa, wiping at her eyes as her laughs dissolved into giggles. "Oh - forgive me, Mrs. Malfoy. I'm - oh, but that's _rich."_ She sighed, shaking her head. "Of course, he isn't. I only wanted to know what you would say if he was."

Narcissa stared at the girl, wondering whether she should be angry, relieved, or perhaps a mixture of both. And then, slowly, Narcissa allowed herself to become infected by the girl's contagious joy. She felt her own lips curve into a reluctant smile, chuckling softly at the sheer magnitude of Ginny's audacity before breaking out into laughter of her own.

How long had it been since she had actually, _really,_ laughed? The girl was brave and had a cruel sense of humor - clearly the influence of her twin brothers, to be sure.

Ginny rose from the sofa and gave Narcissa an appraising look, still grinning widely. "I think I'll go apologize to my mum," she said, crossing the room and removing the chair from beneath the handle. Before she pulled the door open, Ginny looked at Narcissa over her shoulder. "You're really very pretty when you smile, you know. You should do it more often, instead of always looking like there's something smelly under your nose. Just a thought."

Narcissa watched the girl leave, completely bewildered.

.

* * *

.

Hermione was at the study table when Draco found her. It was a scene he had become quite accustomed to seeing: a head of ungodly bushy hair bent over an array of parchment and quills, an inkpot on the table that was in serious danger of being pushed over the edge by some thick textbook or another. So immersed was Hermione that she did not even bother to look up at his entrance. Draco was annoyed by it.

"Surely," he drawled, sauntering over to the study table and leaning against it. "I'm important enough to you to rank some sort of greeting."

"Mmmh," came her offhanded response, her quill continuing to fly across the parchment. "Hello, Draco. How were your rounds?"

"Exhausting. I'm in dire need of a massage to calm my nerves."

Even from this angle, he could see the roll of her eyes. "I'm sure watching the Room of Requirement is very tiring work."

"Quite," he agreed. Draco pushed off the table and noted that Hermione's hand was jarred off its course at the sudden movement; she lifted her quill in time for her precious essay to be spared disfigurement. "What are you doing?"

He came round to stand behind her, bracing his hand against the desk and craning his neck to better see her forever tidy handwriting.

"Homework," Hermione answered, and the waver in her voice caused by his proximity was but small gratification in the shadow of her refusal to acknowledge him.

"I can see that." Draco reached over, sliding his fingers through the roll at the top of the essay where the already-written-on parchment had gathered, positively astounded at the length when it just kept on unraveling. "Dear Merlin, Granger. This must be, what, forty-two inches?"

He stole a glance at the title as the parchment unfolded at last, and then turned his head to look at her in utter disbelief. Hermione did not meet his eyes.

"Nearly four feet for Professor Binns? The essay only called for twenty-four inches!"

"Professor Binns never complains if I write a bit extra," she said, giving him her best Head Girl tone.

"Never complains? He never _cares,_ Hermione, he's a ghost. You're wasting your time - and parchment."

"It isn't a waste if it's going toward my marks," Hermione objected. "Now, if you'll be so kind as to _go away,_ I might be able to concentrate."

Draco paused.

If he were a gentleman, Draco might have allowed her the time to focus on her schoolwork, knowing as he did that it was her outlet for frustration, her method to distract herself from the growing disquiet that was festering in her soul. Hermione simply had no other ways to handle the anxiety that he had become slowly more attuned to sensing in her. Draco had come to learn that if there was one thing that Hermione could not stand, it was the inability to roll up her sleeves and dive headlong into something that needed to be done - an unfortunate quality for her to have at just that time, because the four of them (though Draco was loathed to admit Potter and Weasley into what Hermione had termed their _circle)_ were collectively at loose ends.

Theo's task had not come into any clearer light since they had vowed to discover what he was getting up to, and Blaise's updates on the matter were scarce and so far unhelpful, to say the very least. Moreover, they were no closer to figuring out the location of the diadem than they had been when they first confronted Ravenclaw's portrait about it in the first place. And the location of the other Horcruxes, or rather, their complete lack of ideas about what those locations could be, did not even bear considering.

The news in the _Daily Prophet_ was becoming darker every morning, with headlines that focused mainly on Scrimgeour's varied promises to search more, fight more, make more arrests - all assurances that were left invariably unfulfilled. Instead, there were reports about replacements of Ministry officials, which to any intelligent reader meant that someone had been killed; the upheaval of ingrained procedure that meant that another had been _Imperiused;_ disappearances of witches and wizards across the United Kingdom, some high-profile and others just average, everyday blokes who Draco knew would probably never be seen again.

Hermione, by what means Draco did not know, had somehow managed to unearth the names of a few wizards who had been placed in Muggle journalism positions and had convinced them to send newspapers by owl post, and as sickening as the thought was, they provided much more honest proof of Voldemort's steady rise than the _Prophet_ did. It was obvious to any magical person who read them, for anyone could see through the inexplicable accidents and entire families who dropped dead of what Muggles were forced to assume were heart attacks and aneurysms. The London news had the most common instances, but sadly, Edinburgh was a close second, an unsettling truth simply because it was so much nearer to Hogwarts.

Voldemort and his Death Eaters had not been idle, and Draco knew that it was eating at all their consciences to know that they were, as of now, helpless to do anything about it. Especially Potter, who was more withdrawn and determined than ever, and Hermione, who did not know what to do with herself other than to delve into tireless research. It was all Draco could do to make sure she at least got a full eight hours of sleep in every evening, and even that was proving quite difficult.

All of these things were true, but so was something else: Draco was almost never a gentleman when it came to Hermione Granger, and so he bent his head close to hers, nuzzling against her ear and inhaling the scent of her perfume.

"I think you need a break, Granger," he murmured, keeping his tone soft and low as he dragged the parchment away from her to set it aside.

Hermione sighed, some mixture of desire and aggravation, and slapped his hand away. "Don't, Draco, you'll ruin the ink. And besides, I need to finish it."

"You don't. It isn't even due until next week." He pulled again at the parchment, this time succeeding in snatching it away from her. Hermione turned in her chair and made a futile grab for it, unable to reach the essay when he backed away and held it above her head.

"Yes, I do need to finish it, Draco. Hand it back."

"No."

"Yes!" She swiped at it again and then pushed off the table, going up on her toes and following him as he danced backward. "Don't be such a prat."

Draco drew his wand and gave it a wave, _packing_ all her schoolwork and the effects that were littered about the table neatly into her bag. She watched as all her belongings disappeared into and then rounded on him angrily. "Why -"

"There now, Granger," he interrupted. "It's a Friday night, no point squandering it on homework."

He smirked at her. Irritating Hermione never did get old - and some things never changed. Like her reactions.

"It's after Midnight already."

"Yes, but there aren't lessons in the morning. Don't be such a swot."

"How did you ever manage Head Boy?"

He shrugged. "It must be my elegant good looks and irresistible charm."

"It should have been Terry Boot," she said snootily, raising her eyebrows.

He feigned outrage. "So cruel. If Terry Boot had made Head Boy, you wouldn't have me."

"I also wouldn't have someone trying to constantly divert my attention."

Her tone was sweet and fake. Draco knew she didn't mean it.

"I'm not trying to do anything but help you," Draco said candidly. "You're trying to distract _yourself._ I'm here to show you there are more efficient, healthier ways to do it."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "There's nothing unhealthy about revision."

"Anything is unhealthy if it isn't done in moderation," he told her, resting his chin in his hand and tapping a finger against his lips, looking her up and down. "The question is, what are we going to do to distract you?"

She looked uncomfortable under his scrutiny and understandably affronted at the idea that she didn't know what was good for her own well-being; Draco didn't care about any of that.

"I think," Draco said slowly, watching as her amber eyes turned wary against him, as though he was something like a dangerous creature to approach with utmost caution. Which, Draco supposed, was smart of her: she wasn't going to like what he had in mind. "I think that it's time I gave you some lessons, Granger."

Hermione scoffed. "What is there that _you_ could possibly teach _me?"_

.

* * *

.

" _No!"_ Hermione said shrilly. "I'm _not_ doing it!"

"Come on, Granger," said Draco, grinning infuriatingly as he spun to face her. "You let me bring you all the way out here only to turn back at the last moment?"

They were on the Quidditch pitch. All around, the night rose up like a solid wall of darkness, shallowly illuminated by the array of shining stars and the light of a perfect quarter moon. The only shapes that were visible in the blackness seemed to be their own bodies and the towering castle behind them. Even the stands were murky this evening, their columns disappearing some sixty feet in the air and indistinguishable against the shady backdrop of the Forbidden Forest. Remembering another evening on this same Quidditch pitch not so long ago, Hermione gave a little shiver that had almost nothing to do with the biting wind that was threading its way under the folds of her traveling cloak. The cold October air chilled her skin and made the fine hair on her arms stand at attention.

"We're going to be expelled," she hissed, turning her head this way and that as though the Headmistress was going to suddenly materialize on the pathway, telling both students to hand over their Head badges and that neither of them would ever hope to graduate. In fact, it was amazing to her that they had not been apprehended before they completed their trek through the castle and across the grounds.

"Funny, that," Draco mocked. "You never put much stock in the rules except when they suit you. You're perfectly capable of breaking curfew any other night." He spread his arms wide. "What's so different about this?"

"I'm not going to risk my badge - _and yours -_ for something as juvenile as flying lessons."

"Scared, Granger?"

"No," she denied, raising her chin. "And quite apart from the fact that we're breaking at least _twenty_ school rules, you haven't even brought your broom."

"An easily rectified situation." Draco grinned at her from the space that separated them, walking backward before turning on his heel to stride across the lawn. He didn't bother to see whether she had decided to follow him.

Hermione only held her ground for a moment, looking over her shoulder and realizing that, without him, she was very much alone - an idea that she in no way relished, being that all sorts of things were known to prowl about in the forest that was only a few hundred yards beyond the stands. She took off after him.

"This is the worst idea you've _ever_ had," she insisted when she finally caught up, frustrated that it was difficult to keep pace with his much longer stride; even more irritating was the fact that Draco did not seem to be anything less than relaxed, walking confidently toward the locker rooms and making no effort to slow down. Coming to stand in front of the old, rain-worn wooden doors, Draco pointed his wand and said, _"Alohomora."_

The large bolt that secured the entrance clicked open and dropped onto the gravelled path, and Draco pushed open the doors, lighting his wand before veering immediately to the right. Hermione cast one more look over her shoulder and, shaking her head, followed him inside, only to see that he had not ventured very far before coming to a second, much smaller door that she could only assume was a broom cupboard.

Her suspicions were confirmed when he leaned past the doorjamb, using his _Lumos_ to scan the engravings on each shaft.

"If you were so intent on this, why didn't you just bring your own broom?"

"Because if I had, you'd have known what my intentions were. You'd never have agreed to it, and I had to get you all the way out to the pitch, didn't I?" He extracting an average-looking broom from its place in the cupboard and turned to her. "And a Firebolt is too powerful for you. You wouldn't be able to properly control it."

Arse.

"I'm not _totally_ hopeless on a broom, you know," she said when he headed back out of the locker rooms, seemingly paying no attention to her or her protestations as he extinguished his _Lumos._

"So prove it."

"I have nothing to prove," she said firmly, but Draco did not appear to have heard. He tossed the broom toward her and Hermione opened her hands reflexively to catch it, which turned out not to be at all necessary, for the Cleansweep Seven stopped its descent and hovered obediently in mid-air before her, waiting for her to mount it.

Hermione looked down at the innocent-looking broom and grimaced. She had never studied broom lore, not beyond the books she had referenced in third year when Sirius Black had anonymously gifted Harry the Firebolt which she had initially been so suspicious of. She understood the theory well enough and knew from the boys' extensive discussions that Cleansweep Sevens were considered good, sturdy, and reliable brooms. She knew also that Fred and George had played with them during their school years on the Gryffindor House team, which was not exactly a reassuring thought.

Yes, she was afraid. She was terrified of flying and had been as soon as Madame Hooch had made it clear that Hermione Granger was simply not made for it. That was six years ago, and since then, Hermione's experience in the air was limited. There was Buckbeak, of course, which was frightening. The Thestral she'd flown to the Ministry, which was even worse because she couldn't see it - and the Thestral which had been navigated by Kingsley when they'd rescued Harry from Privet Drive on the eve of his seventeenth birthday. Ginny had offered to help her during holidays at the Burrow, egged on by Harry and Ron before all three of them eventually gave it up as a bad job.

Hermione did not like heights.

"Get on the sodding broom, Hermione."

She glanced up at him and knew that she was powerless to stop the fear showing on her face.

"I don't want to," she confessed in a small voice, shaking her head. "I can't."

"You can," he told her. "Unless, of course, the brave _Gryffindor_ is too scary to fly."

"Oh _sure,_ Draco," she spat. "Appeal to my sense of courage, that's _bound_ to convince me. All Gryffindors have no choice if you take the mickey from them for being afraid."

"Whatever works." He shrugged, then sighed heavily. "Listen, Hermione, you've spent all these years since you found out that you're a witch trying to prove that you're good enough for the magical world -"

Hermione gasped, opening her mouth to vilify him for his slander, but he held up a hand to cut her off.

"No, don't be angry at me because I know you," he continued. "From the moment you found out that you don't belong in the Muggle world, that you're magic, you've been studying and reading and learning, trying to be perfect, trying to show everyone that you can fit in here even though you weren't raised a witch." He stared at her, and his expression was so open and honest that all she could do was stare back at him, wondering how he'd known all of this about her when she had never told him.

"Six years later, here you are - the brightest witch of your age, the exact opposite of what people like me expected of you. The top of your class, Head Girl, the _girlfriend_ of a Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood. The brains of the _Golden Trio,_ even if the other two are witless imbeciles." He jerked his chin toward the castle, not smiling or grinning or smirking or looking even the least bit haughty about his description of himself. "And you're going to stand there and tell me that Hermione Granger can't master a broomstick?"

For a long moment, Hermione said nothing. She was incapable of doing much more than watch him, it seemed, struggling for words as she absorbed his appearance. Draco Malfoy was a study in contrast in more ways than one, with his ivory skin and pale, gray eyes, the silvery hair that gleamed in the soft glow of the half-moon; he was a striking image against the darkness and the added pitch black of his expensive cloak. His aristocratic features were thrown into relief, the angular planes of his face and the sharp line of his jaw steady as he gazed back down at her. He was so handsome, how could he be so impossibly handsome and still be interested in her, still think that her plain features and bushy hair could ever measure up to his royal good looks?

And yet, he was so very different from the Malfoy she had known before, for back then, he wasn't Draco to her. He wasn't a love-interest or a man who had vulnerabilities, or even a person - back then he'd been nothing but Malfoy, a bully and a jerk, an arrogant git who existed to make her life and that of her friends a trial each and every day.

How much they had both evolved since then.

"If we get expelled for this," she said, her voice cracking as she resisted the tears of emotion that sometimes tried to present themselves whenever she followed those lines of thought. "I'll kill you."

"Nonsense," he said, tilting his head. "If we get expelled, we'll continue our search for the Horcruxes until that maniac is dead and buried." His eyes traced the outline of her body. "Take your cloak off and tie up your hair. I won't help you get the tangles out after this is finished."

Hermione glared at him but nonetheless used her wand to scrape the mass of curls into a twist that would hold against the wind. With shaking hands, she unfastened the clasp at her throat and was surprised to see Draco sliding his own cloak from around his shoulders. She narrowed her eyes.

"You're flying as well?"

"I can't help you if all I'm doing is shouting directions from the ground."

Feeling just slightly more confident that she wouldn't be going it alone, Hermione asked, "But what's the point, then, if I'm not controlling it?"

"You will be controlling it. Whoever's in front is the flyer, obviously," he said. "Now get on the broom, Granger… you _do_ know which side is the front, don't you?"

"Very funny, Malfoy." She grasped the end of the Cleansweep and swung her leg over. "I'm surprised _you're_ brave enough to even attempt this."

She heard him snort softly. "Well, I'm hardly going to let _myself_ fall," he said snobbishly, and Hermione felt his added weight as the broom adjusted itself to support him. He tutted. "This is your first problem: your hands are much too close to your body. You'll never be able to properly navigate like that."

His hands closed around hers and pushed her grip forward, leaning into her as her back arched toward the ground. Already panicking, Hermione glanced uncertainly over her shoulder, only to see that Draco was regarding her with something between amusement and admiration.

"Well, what are you waiting for Granger?" he asked. "Fly."

Hermione faced forward and tried to steady her breath, and then, on the exhale, kicked off. The last thing she heard was the crunch of the grass beneath her trainers before the whooshing of displaced air filled her ears. The nauseating feel of vertigo clawed its way up through her stomach and Hermione refused to look down as they climbed through the sky; she shuddered as the crisp wind whipped at her face, stunning her exposed features with its unrelentingly frigid pressure. The only anchor in this precarious, terrifying new world was the warm constant of Draco's body behind hers - and then, once they had become level with the goal hoops and spectator's stands, Hermione made a horrible mistake.

Glancing down at the point where her hands were tightly gripping the Cleansweep, and then at Draco's own paler ones, Hermione allowed her eyes to drift toward the unforgiving ground below. She faltered, straightening out with the absurd notion that if she just pulled her face further away from gravity, she would be less likely to fall.

"Christ," she rasped, her knuckles white against the broom as she proceeded to shake, unable to tear her eyes away from the lawn of the pitch - for surely, it would soon be her grave, these flying lessons would be the death of her, she just knew it.

"Stop thinking about falling," she heard Draco say, his mouth close to her ear. It was as if he had read her thoughts, though Hermione supposed they weren't terribly difficult to guess, not from the way she was watching the ground as though at any second it would start rushing to meet her.

"This was an awful idea," she squeaked in a voice that was high and unfamiliar even to herself. "This was an awful, horrible, _stupid_ idea."

"Would you relax?" he said quietly. "I'm _obviously_ not going to let you die."

But Hermione wasn't so sure. "I never should have agreed to this."

"You're going to be fine," he said exasperatedly, and Hermione thought he sounded something like she imagined Harry might if he had been the one teaching her instead of Draco. "Stop _thinking_ about it, and _feel_ it. Look -"

He pointed his finger toward the castle, an imposing and magnificent figure against the sky. The Astronomy Tower rose proudly over the turrets and battlements; the subtle glow of candlelight flickered in some windows, while others were as dark as the night itself, the students and teachers having turned in for rest after one in the morning - even on a Friday night. Her eyes scanned the parapets and she inhaled a breath, savoring the picture of the place she had called home for so long - the first place she had _really_ felt that she belonged, even more so than she had with her parents, who supported her but could never hope to truly understand her. Draco must have known that it would put her at ease, and he was right: this picture, Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry from this angle, was indeed a glorious sight to behold, and one that she had never had the opportunity to admire from such a height. Both her experiences with flight to or from this castle had been blurred by the rush to save Sirius Black, riddled by adrenaline rather than appreciation for the castle's grandiosity.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, even laughing a bit as she turned in the air, casting her eyes along the mountainous horizon and the line of the trees, the glittering surface of the Black Lake where it reflected the moon and stars. It was perfectly idyllic, an image unspoiled by the bustle of students by day or, for that matter, any other living creature; there was nothing to disturb the calm - except, of course, the Head Boy and Girl, who were probably going to be caught at any moment.

"See, it isn't all bad from up here," said Draco.

"I suppose not," she conceded.

"No dawdling, Granger," he said, affecting his best bossy know-it-all imitation of her. "We aren't up here to star-gaze."

"Right," said Hermione bracingly, directing her attention to the expanse of open air before her.

Truly, she had no idea what to do now that she was airborne. But what she _did_ know that she was not shaking anymore, and the queasy feeling in her gut was no longer threatening to expel the contents of her dinner - which was something.

"For Merlin's sake, Hermione," he said, aggravated. " _Stop thinking about it and fly."_

Hermione flew, allowing her hands to lead her in the direction of the goal hoops although she had no idea what compelled her to go there - lack of any other logical aims, probably.

"Now, go around them," he said, not forcibly guiding her but making suggestions, permitting her to choose her own course. "Don't oversteer, you don't need much to turn. Just lean into it."

Hermione did, bearing her weight to the left and gasping, her heart plummeting into her stomach when the broom began to capsize - she knew that it was not her own strength but Draco's that steadied it, then, righting the Cleansweep before they both rolled in the air.

"You oversteered," he admonished, chuckling. "Try it again - no, with the _other_ hoops."

Glancing at him once again over her shoulder, Hermione sailed across the pitch and tried desperately to ignore the physical apprehension that was building in her chest, causing her palms to sweat and her breath to come in short, unnerved pants.

"Stop," he told her firmly, and Hermione realized that even with the loud rush of air that was sounding in her own ears, he was close enough to hear her. "I'm _not_ going to let you die."

Right. She wasn't going to die, she wasn't going to die, she wasn't going to die - but flying deaths were more common than many others in the Wizarding World. Hermione had read that and tried presently to remind herself that books were of no importance when it came to the actual practicalities of flying - to the practicalities of magic and gravity and everything else that both kept her in the air and sought to bring her crashing back down to Earth.

"Okay." Her voice shook and she leaned into the Cleansweep to make a circle around the goal hoops, shocking herself when she'd managed a perfect arc.

She felt a surge of elation, smiling as what would be a minor accomplishment to anyone else bolstered her waning morale.

"Higher," Draco urged, and her face fell.

She didn't want to go any higher.

"Er, this is quite enough, I think," she said, but to her dismay, the broom began to rise, driven on by Draco's more domineering grip. "No - no - no."

"You're thinking about it again," Draco chastised, and Hermione thought she could hear him smiling at her expense.

Well, fine. Hermione took over, compelling the broom upward as Draco allowed her to steer. Already she could feel the panic rising in her throat and she told herself, again, not to look down. She attempted to level out, but Draco said, "Higher."

She went higher.

"Stop," he told her, and Hermione pulled back on the Cleansweep and slowed it to stagnation. With a jolt, Hermione saw that they were as high as the tallest tower - a fall from this height would surely be fatal. But Draco wasn't going to let her fall.

"Do you feel better now?" she heard him ask, and Hermione shook her head.

"No," she said breathlessly.

"How about… now?"

And then, in the space of a heartbeat, they were speeding as one toward the ground, spiralling downward as Draco lead their descent.

Hermione shrieked, shaking her head wildly and shouting, _"Draco, no! NO!"_

Hermione knew a paralyzing fear, watching as the Earth came nearer and nearer, growing larger and closer at an alarming, petrifying, terrifying rate. And she could think of nothing else except her own inevitable, crushing death, for she was about to slam into the ground and they would both be killed. Hermione, who did not understand why Draco was doing nothing to right their course, acted on split-second reflexes when she pulled upward on the shaft of the broom.

 _Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God -_

And then they were slowing, but not enough to save their lives. With a last, frantic jerk back toward the sky, Hermione felt a heart-stopping relief when they stopped just short of the grass and then rose away from it in a graceful move that Hermione was sure could only have been managed by Draco.

Pulse racing, her throat raw from screaming at the top of her lungs, Hermione guided the broom back down to Earth and jumped away from it, stumbling as her feet found purchase on the lawn and then promptly toppling to her knees.

 _But it had happened so quickly -_ Hermione's thoughts were moving all in a jumble across her mind's eye, jostling one another and fighting for attention. She groped to make sense of it all but instead felt only the dull ache of confusion and the slowly fading tendrils of fear - not just fear, she thought, but terror. Blood-freezing, limb-numbing terror. _Was she alive?_

Great peals of laughter sounded from behind her, and Hermione pushed off the ground, whipping around to see that Draco had calmly, composedly dismounted the broom and was holding it upright, clutching at his chest as though this were the funniest thing he had ever witnessed. Hermione's blood boiled and she lunged at him.

" _Draco - Lucius - Malfoy, you complete -"_ She beat her fists against his chest and he backed away from her, still howling with laughter. " _\- ARSE! How dare you -"_

"Her - Hermione!" he gasped, and her attack seemed to be doing nothing but entertaining him further, for he was soon bent double, dropping the Cleansweep as his shoulders shook with merriment. "Stop it -"

"Stop it?" she fumed. _"Stop it? YOU WERE GOING TO KILL US BOTH!"_

Draco roared even louder at that, staggering away from her as she swung again at his chest.

" _What the HELL is so God-damn FUNNY?"_ Hermione demanded, stomping her foot.

He failed to suppress his mirth and was still sniggering when he said, "It's funny because _I_ wasn't the one who stopped us hitting the ground, Hermione. _You_ were."

Hermione paused, blinking away the startling realization that he was right. She _had_ been the one to pull away from the ground, not Draco. Not Draco, who was still laughing, who was buckled over again with his hands placed firmly on his knees. Not Draco, but Hermione, who had never been daring enough to brave a willful flight on a broom in more than half a decade, who had been rated hopeless first by Rolanda Hooch and then later by her friends, whose fear of heights had always prevented her from even being tempted by something like Quidditch, and who had been somewhat ostracized because of it.

"So, _this_ is your brilliant plan to cure me of my fears?" she accused incredulously. "To - to fly toward the ground and see whether I managed to pull myself out of it?"

Draco stood up straight, smiling. "No. Originally, I was going to hand you a broom and push you off the Astronomy tower, but I thought that might be a bit much."

"That's barbaric!" she screamed. "You gambled with our lives! You couldn't possibly have known I wouldn't kill myself!"

"Yes, I did," Draco corrected her, stepping forward to take her hands in his own. "I did know. You were the only one that didn't believe in yourself." He turned her hand over and brought her knuckles to his lips, brushing a few soft kisses across her fingers. His eyes never left hers as he whispered, "For a brilliant witch, you're quite oblivious as to how capable you are."

 _What a novel idea,_ Hermione thought, her vision dancing as her eyes flicked back and forth between Draco's mercurial stare. To have someone believe in her not because he needed answers for his schoolwork, not simply because she had carried her intelligence like a banner and waved it proudly for all to see - not simply because she was top of her class and could repeat information that other's forgot, and could see things that others overlooked. To have someone believe in her because of who she was, and not what she had already done - it was different. Different from her parents always pushing her for higher marks, different from Ron's oblivious acknowledgement that she was simply clever, different, even, from Harry's steady fondness and appreciation for her.

To have someone who made her question herself and challenge the limits she'd set for herself - it was… what was the word she was looking for?

Refreshing? Frightening?

He was an anchor. He was _her_ anchor.

Draco released her hands, pacing backward until he was again standing over the broom. Still, he continued to watch her, never appearing to stumble although he could not possibly have known where he was going, always graceful and self-assured as he gazed steadily back at her.

"Again?" he asked, eyebrows raised.

Hermione hesitated, irresolute as she eyed the offensive device, and then, gathering up all her reserves of courage, met Draco's eyes and strode purposefully over to the Cleansweep.

" _Up,"_ she commanded; the broom did not turn over on the ground or roll to the side, but raced into her waiting hand.

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _Around eleven o'clock, the train began to move again. We pressed against the windows. The convoy was rolling slowly. A quarter of an hour later, it began to slow down even more. Through the windows, we saw barbed wire; we understood that this was the camp._

 _We had forgotten Mrs. Schachter's existence. Suddenly there was a terrible scream:_

 _"Jews, look! Look at the fire! Look at the flames!"_

 _And as the train stopped, this time we saw flames rising from a tall chimney into a black sky._

* * *

.

 **A/N: Not as much plot, but some Dramione. Dedicated to RooOjoy and**


	30. The Sacred Twenty-Eight

_**Night**_

* * *

 _Another inmate appeared, unleashing a stream of invectives:_

 _"Sons of bitches, why have you come here? Tell me, why?"_

 _Someone dared to reply:_

 _"What do you think? That we came here of our own free will? That we asked to come here?"_

 _The other seemed ready to kill him:_

 _"Shut up, you moron, or I'll tear you to pieces! You should have hanged yourselves rather than come here. Didn't you know what was in store for you here in Auschwitz? You didn't know? In 1944?"_

 _True. We didn't know. Nobody had told us. He couldn't believe his ears. His tone became even harsher:_

 _"Over there. Do you see the chimney over there? Do you see it? And the flames, do you see them?" (Yes, we saw the flames.) "Over there, that's where they will take you. Over there will be your grave. You still don't understand? You sons of bitches. Don't you understand anything? You will be burned! Burned into a cinder! Turned into ashes!"_

" _Poor devils, you are heading for the crematorium."_

 _He seemed to be telling the truth. Not far from us, flames, huge flames, were rising from a ditch. Something was being burned there. A truck drew close and unloaded its hold: small children. Babies! Yes, I did see this, with my own eyes… children thrown into the flames. (Is it any wonder that ever since then, sleep tends to elude me?)_

 _So that was where we were going. A little farther on, there was another, larger pit for adults._

 _I pinched myself. Was I still alive? Was I alive? Was I awake? How was it possible that men, women, and children were being burned and that the world kept silent? No. All this could not be real. A nightmare perhaps… Soon I would wake up with a start, my heart pounding, and find that I was back in the room of my childhood, with my books…_

 _._

* * *

.

It wasn't until Monday that Hermione saw her friends and really spoke to them. Most of the weekend had been spent lounging with Draco in their shared common room, curled up in front of a crackling hearth and bemoaning the approach of colder weather or else tucked away inside either of their beds. Hermione wasn't stupid: she knew that Draco's refusal to allow her to study was his attempt to help avert her thoughts from the coming war, but the truth was, he had been far more successful at it than she'd expected. After their evening in the sky, the thoughts about which still made her gut churn with something that was not-quite-fear, Hermione had finally just resigned herself to it all and taken Draco's offering for what it was, allowing him to distract her from thoughts of death, destruction, and inevitably, her parents. No one had visited, and neither of them had ventured out except to take their meals. Hermione was almost tempted to sneak into the kitchens and ask the house-elves to provide them some sort of sustenance and probably would have done if it were not for the fact that the Hogwarts house-elves at large were more or less terrified of her since her disastrous S.P.E.W. campaign. It was only for Harry's sake that she did drag herself down to the Great Hall for a bit of socializing.

Harry, Hermione noticed, was getting worse. He was withdrawn as a general rule and suffering any number of his notorious mood swings, always jumping back and forth between taciturn and angry, the weight of his responsibility a crippling burden on his shoulders. He seemed hesitant to open up to either her or Ron, and Hermione supposed that she couldn't rightly fault him for it. She was, after all, rarely present these days. If anyone had asked, Hermione wouldn't have admitted how desperately she longed for the company of her friends and for the comfortable surroundings of the Gryffindor Tower. No one _had_ asked, however, and she wasn't about to make any sort of concerted effort to be there. Not when Ron was being as complacent and smug as he currently was.

It appeared that Draco had been right about Ron using Lavender to make her jealous. Hermione hoped that it wouldn't be the case, that perhaps Ron had managed to just get over her and move on - but the pointed glances he kept sending her way at the Gryffindor table said otherwise. Hermione ignored these looks and wondered privately how Lavender managed to miss them. As close as the other girl was to Ron - always hanging on his arm and holding his hand, paying rapt attention to his every word - it was nothing less than a miracle that Lavender failed to see how often Ron cast his eyes in another direction. If Ron wasn't such a thickhead, Hermione thought that the couple might have a shot at something good. Not that she would have an opportunity to tell him so - not anytime soon, at least, judging by Ron's consistently snide comments.

Hermione resolved to have a good chat with him on that subject, filing it away for some future date when Ron wasn't being so dreadfully annoying. The chances of that happening were bleak, though. Out of any person she knew, Muggle or wizard, Ron had always had the greatest aptitude for rankling her.

Except for Draco Malfoy, of course.

Across from her, Harry was brooding. He appeared to be meticulously studying the untouched lip of his coffee mug, raising his eyes every so often to look at the Slytherin table. Hermione wished he wouldn't. He was trying to protect her from Draco's diabolical betrayals, yes, but it was hard to be grateful for it when every rancorous look he shot toward her boyfriend brought everyone else just that much closer to discovering the truth. A few weeks ago, none of it would have made a difference, but after Draco and Blaise's mock fight, the rest of the school would wonder why Harry was back at Draco's throat. Anyone who cared to watch might catch on, and in the case of Harry Potter, _everyone_ watched.

"Harry?" she cautioned, noting the stubborn set of his jaw. She moved her head into his line of vision, blocking the view beyond her shoulder and forcing him to meet her eyes. "You haven't touched your breakfast."

Harry made no response to this statement. Instead, his gaze flicked away from Hermione and toward the Professors' High-Table. "Look." He jutted his chin toward the raised dais. "Look how many teachers are missing."

Hermione, Ron, and Lavender (who was within earshot) each turned their heads to the front of the Great Hall. Brow furrowed, Hermione followed the line of Professors. Snape, Tonks, Sprout, and McGonagall weren't there.

"Strange," she said thoughtfully.

"What d'you reckon?" asked Ron. "It's an odd combination of teachers to be missing breakfast."

This was true. Professors McGonagall, Tonks, and Snape were Order members, and if it were only the three of them, it may not have struck such a discordant note. But Professor Sprout was not, to any of their knowledge, affiliated with the Order except where the protection of the school came into play: she'd never called at Grimmauld Place and Hermione had certainly never seen her the least bit involved.

So why was she, too, absent?

Reluctantly, Hermione tore her eyes away from the table and returned them to her foremost concern. Harry Potter.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Hermione warned. "It's too early to be making assumptions."

Harry fixed her with a glare. "I haven't made any assumptions."

"I can see it in your eyes, Harry," she told him, and then her breath caught in her throat when Harry's hand flew to press flat against his forehead, his face twisted into a grimace that could only mean one thing.

Ron noticed it too. "What is it, mate?" His voice was low with concern, blue eyes darting around Harry's expression as though mere observation would reveal that which the other boy could not possibly speak with so many other people around.

Harry's lip curled upward, and Hermione watched as the dark-haired wizard purposely sought out the Slytherin table behind her.

"He's happy," said Harry gruffly, slowly lowering his hand and wrapping it around the flatware in an unmistakable grounding method.

Hermione leaned forward, pitching down to a furious whisper. "Harry, you need to -" But what could she say, when there were so many curious ears tuning in? "You know what you need to do, you _need_ to close that -"

"Give it a rest already, Hermione," Harry interrupted flatly, eyes hard and unrepentant. "Quit telling me what to do."

Hermione shrank away, stung. If only it wouldn't have been so cruel to remind him of what happened the last time he made use of that connection, she could put him back in his place and help him see reason. But recalling Sirius' ghost would ultimately do more harm than good. So, instead, she said nothing, but carefully observed her best friend's countenance and demeanor, before looking over at Ron, who seemed equally perturbed. He gave a helpless shrug, as if to say, "What can we do?" and returned to his meal.

Beside him, Lavender's could only be described as irritated. Hermione guessed it was because the other girl felt left out of the conversation, but had no time to ponder it, for the arrival of the post had hundreds of students' faces turned up at the overcast ceiling. As expected, a small barn owl landed gracefully in front of Hermione and regarded her through round, yellowish eyes, waiting for its pay. Digging into her beaded bag, Hermione extracted the required Knut and, after she offered it a bit of bacon for its trouble, the bird flew away.

Before Hermione even had a chance to unroll the _Daily Prophet,_ Ron asked his customary question. "Anyone we know dead?"

At least some things were still the same. It was a reassuring thought.

Hermione rarely knew what to anticipate when reading the _Prophet_ these days. Death, disappearances, and empty promises, usually. It was hardly ever anything good, and usually not even worth her attention with all its exaggerations of Ministry resistance and its minimizing of the actual truth.

But nothing could have prepared her for this.

"Oh, _no,"_ Hermione moaned.

"What?" asked Harry and Ron together, leaning forward in unison.

Hermione shoved her own plate and mug aside, and Harry, sensing her urgency, hurried to do the same. Once enough space was cleared, Hermione flattened the paper against the surface of the table.

A blazing headline marched along the top of the _Daily Prophet:_

 _ **Terror Strikes British Countryside, Sacred Twenty-Eight Families Murdered**_

"I can't see it, Hermione, it's upside down," said Ron.

"'The Ministry of Magic now faces an unprecedented uproar after Sacred Twenty-Eight families are found murdered in their homes on Sunday, October 12th. Aurors were dispatched to three separate domiciles across the country due to reports of the Dark Mark, the macabre symbol of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named and his followers, hanging over the estates. No Death Eaters were apprehended after alarms were raised, and Magical Law Enforcement has confirmed the deaths of Merric and Cordelia Bulstrode, Ean and Marilyn Macmillan, and Bradford Abbott.

"According to Auror Robert Savage, these well-respected members of the magical community each fell victim to the Killing Curse. Professional opinion states that these families were targeted as a direct result of their refusal to join ranks with You-Know-Who..." Hermione trailed off, skipping past the superfluous details. "No word yet on whether their children have been removed from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to be placed in protective custody."

Hermione snapped to attention then, turning on the bench. A quick glance toward the Hufflepuff table revealed that Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbott were not among their housemates; looking past them and to the other side of the hall, Hermione could see that Millicent Bulstrode was missing from the Slytherin table as well.

"That's why Professor Sprout's gone, too," said Ron. "They must have already known."

It wasn't until Ron's voice rang clear as a bell through the Great Hall that Hermione realized no one was speaking. Everyone seemed to be shocked into silence, staring down at their copies of the _Daily Prophet_ as though simply looking at it long enough would make the nightmare untrue. Then, slowly, there was a hum of panicked chatter. The younger students all turned to the High-Table, expecting reassurance from a Headmistress who wasn't there; the older ones were not naive enough to think that the teachers could have any effect, and it was only a few seconds before they leveled their eyes on the boy who was supposed to be the savior of the Wizarding World. Hermione faced Harry once more and saw that he was struggling with the effort it took to ignore the hundreds of eyes that were now fixed upon him.

Lavender chose that moment to chime into the conversation. "Does it say anything about Hannah's mother?"

Hermione shook her head sadly. There was no point in deriding the other girl's forgetfulness, not in the wake of such tragedy. "No, Lavender. Hannah's mother was killed last year, don't you remember when she was taken out of our Herbology class?"

Harry closed his eyes and gave a jerk of his head before opening them. Hermione thought she knew what he was thinking, that Millicent, Ernie and Hannah were all too old to be considered orphans and yet much too young to have lost their parents. He would feel culpable for their deaths.

"That's why he's happy," Harry bit out with disgust. "It's because the _Prophet_ didn't have a choice but to report what he's done."

"What do you mean?" inquired Lavender, her face screwed up in confusion. "The _Prophet_ reports on what's going on with the war every day."

Hermione's eyes darted over to Harry, who was straining with impatience. Luckily for Lavender, the girl was at least smart enough not to ask exactly how it was that Harry knew about Voldemort's emotions. Fearing an outburst, Hermione rushed to respond.

"The _Prophet_ downplays everything that's happening," she explained. "All of it's drivel, the Ministry's attempt to make the public think that they're accomplishing something. It's usually rubbish, you see? But this - " Hermione gestured toward the paper, where overbearingly large images were flashing across the front page: the Bulstrodes' manor in Kent; the Abbott estate in Gloucestershire; the Macmillans' home in Inverness, which looked more like a Medieval Scottish castle than it did any sort of mansion. Every residence was photographed with a glittering _Morsmordre_ curse hanging in the sky above it, the sure sign that the Death Eaters had murdered there.

"This, they can't ignore," Hermione finished, staring morosely down at the moving pictures. "They can't curtail the deaths of such old families."

Lavender was silent; Hermione was grateful for it.

"It's a wonder he even did it," said Ron, swallowing audibly. "You'd think he wouldn't want to spill any pure blood."

A fair point, Hermione thought, and one worth further consideration. But Harry snorted.

"It's because they wouldn't join him. He murdered them to make an example." Hatred seeped from his tone. "To show everybody what'll happen to their own families if they refuse to bow to him."

"But the Bulstrodes?" Ron argued. "I wouldn't figure them to resist You-Know-Who."

Hermione whipped her head around to face him and became aware that she was now the one on the verge of temper. "And just why is that, Ron?"

Ron nodded his head toward the Slytherin table as though it was the only necessary indication. "She's one of them."

"Oh, it's because she's a Slytherin, is it?" Hermione prodded, incensed.

"Obviously. She's one, and the rest of her lot have been for centuries."

" _That_ is exactly the sort of prejudiced that's gotten us into this war in the first place," Hermione snapped, and Ron reared back just a bit. "It's that foul line of thought that we're fighting against in the first place. It doesn't make any difference if it's in reverse."

Ron's ears began to burn a bright shade of red. "Oh, yeah?" he asked mockingly. "Let's do the math, then, shall we? How many Slytherins have gone wrong? And for the sake of argument, we'll not include anyone we haven't been to school with. Parkinson." He stuck up one finger for punctuation and then added another for every name as the list went on. "Crabbe, Goyle, _Malfoy -"_

"He isn't anymore!" Hermione argued fiercely, but Ron continued as though she hadn't spoken.

"Flint, Not-"

" _NO, Ron!"_ Harry interjected, and Ron appeared to come back to himself, looking sheepish for coming so close to compromising the sensitive information. But when he looked back to Hermione, he glared. Clearly, none of his contrition was reserved for her.

"How funny," Hermione said scathingly. "You still can't count without using your fingers, Ronald. You insensitive _arse,_ Millicent Bulstrode's parents are dead and you think she's somehow different from Ernie and Hannah simply because _her lot_ are Slytherin? What about Peter Pettigrew? He was a Gryffindor and look how he turned out. And then there's Percy, and we all know what great things he's gone on to do."

Later, Hermione would regret her words and wonder what on Earth had possessed her to strike at Ron with such a low blow. But now, when her anger had already reached a boiling point, when she was still frothing over the injustice of it all, she was past caring. Gathering her effects, Hermione stood and slung her school bag over her shoulder before storming proudly out of the Great Hall. She made it a point not to look at Draco as she passed him.

.

* * *

.

It hadn't been more than a handful of days since Draco and Blaise had pulled off what he had to admit was quite a convincing performance at breakfast. Draco liked to entertain the notion that he was a reasonably talented actor, at least when it came to maintaining an air of absolute detachment. It wasn't the facade that was difficult to keep up.

Actually forcing himself not to give a fuck had turned out to be more problematic.

Draco could suffer the mistrust of his own kind, if only because it was absolutely imperative to the larger picture that he did. He could ignore them, he could turn his nose up at them, and he could pretend that their hatred didn't affect him the way it really did. And if he officially, publicly had both his feet out of their isolated world, he could handle it - even if the _other_ world in which he was currently standing did not entirely accept him. If the only place he felt at home was with the Muggleborn, Hermione Granger, well. It was a more-than-tolerable situation in Draco's opinion.

But it was hard not to care when the people he had grown up with were positively scared out of their Goddamn wits. None of them allowed it to show, of course - they'd forfeit the House Cup before that happened.

Draco knew.

He knew the symptoms of Slytherins who were too proud to admit that they were no longer sure of their own future, that their lives, which had hitherto been almost guaranteed safe because of their ancestry, were now in mortal danger. There was no longer a safe ticket out of the fray for them. Had Millicent Bulstrode's parents not been included in the Death Eater attack, things might have been different. But the Bulstrodes were more than just purebloods to Draco's housemates, more than just a Sacred Twenty-Eight family: they were Slytherins, and as such were meant to have been immune.

And yet, they were not.

What his housemates didn't understand was that no one was immune to the snake-faced overlord who was bent on world domination, and world domination was, without a doubt, Voldemort's ultimate goal. All his posturing, all the self-righteous preaching that spoke of a freer society for wizards would not stop there. It would get worse for everybody, pureblood and half-blood and Muggleborn alike - and the _Daily Prophet's_ article from this morning wasn't the only bit of news to prove it.

No one was safe. Not even underage Muggleborn students.

Safely hidden away in a deserted corner of the library, Draco leaned against one particularly neglected bookshelf and lowered his eyes to quite another article, one that was much older and far, far more gruesome. Draco's stomach gave a sickening lurch as he read and re-read the name that was printed in the headline.

Mathilda Greene.

Madame Pince had handed over his requested archives with unmitigated suspicion, shooting him a penetrating glare over her wire-rimmed spectacles and giving him the impression that she was no longer willing to make the records readily available. It was a strange encounter that didn't add up with the professional, if somewhat peremptory, conversation they'd had last week. When Draco had initially asked for them, Madame Pince had been obviously confused about his inquiry into the past but hadn't commented on it. When she had finally relinquished the 1970s _Prophet_ article, however, she had muttered something disdainful about meddlesome children with bad intentions. Draco hadn't understood it.

Now, he thought he had more of a grasp on why Madame Pince was so skeptical of him.

Mathilda Greene had not been given a merciful death. The story that ended her short life was not one that was concluded with a Killing Curse… no, the sixteen-year-old Ravenclaw Prefect had not been so lucky, and if Draco had to guess, he'd say that the _Prophet_ had omitted some of the most grisly details for the sake of its younger readers. What _had_ been reported was that the girl was meant to be sleeping in her bed when she was attacked. None of her dorm mates had noticed her absence. None of the ghosts had witnessed her escape from the castle. The wards that surrounded the grounds had not been disturbed in any way. Headmaster Albus Dumbledore could give no account of her kidnapping ( _if,_ then up-and-coming special correspondent Rita Skeeter had speculated, a kidnapping was indeed the case.) She was a brilliant student. Ten OWLs. The picture showed a nice-looking blond girl who smiled with white, even teeth for a magical camera. She'd been flayed. Raped. Her throat had been slit. A racial slur had been carved into her arm by what Healer's had later confirmed was a cursed blade.

Mudblood.

Her body had been dumped in Hogsmeade to be discovered by the barkeep of the Hog's Head Inn, Aberforth Dumbledore (a fact which Skeeter had utilized with her usual shameless gall.)

Draco tipped his head back against the bookshelf and told himself to breathe. His insides were twisted into knots, the sheer force of his worry threatening to override his usually unflappable sense of logic. It had been months since a fear this great had overwhelmed him, months since such feelings had left him so unfocused.

Safety had been a luxury, Draco realized then. A luxury and an illusion. He had thought that portion of his life was over and had foolishly allowed himself to be lulled into a false sense of security, had allowed himself to be ensconced in the protection of Dumbledore and the Order. It had been a farce. Ever since the night on the Astronomy tower, after his mother had been delivered to Grimmauld Place, he had assumed -...

 _My mother,_ Draco thought, grinding his teeth. What did she have to do with this? None of it made sense. How could Narcissa Malfoy possibly fit into this enigma that was Mathilda Greene and her death? Did she feel _responsible?_ So responsible that she had asked Dumbledore to compensate for her with _gold?_

It didn't seem likely. His mother was not a Death Eater. She had never been required to participate in the murders and raids, and if Voldemort had not demanded it of her when she was in her forties, he certainly would not have demanded it of her when she was a teenager.

But why? _Why, why, why?_

The question seemed to linger in the very air in front of him, mingling with the dust motes where they floated in and out of the rays of afternoon sunlight that filtered through the windows of the library. The answer, Draco knew, was out of his reach, and as taunting and esoteric as it was, thoughts of his mother were not the ones at the forefront of his mind.

A month ago, Draco would not have had cause to be so very afraid of the possibilities that now lay before him. A month ago, he probably would not have given a second acknowledgement to a Muggleborn girl, especially not one who was more than twenty-five years buried. But a month ago, he didn't have Hermione Granger.

Now, Draco was terrified, and the images that his overactive and damaged mind had conjured not so long ago, in the dead of night after he had been ripped from his sleep by nightmares, rose again unbidden.

 _How tragically reckless you are for putting that girl in such a dangerous position…_

 _So, what I'm hearing is that you need to break it off before she gets hurt…_

"Oi!" came the whisper, and for one bizarre moment, Draco thought it was one of his own memories before he realized that it wasn't.

Stiffening, he glanced sidelong toward the entrance to the little-used section of the library he had commandeered for his own. His first thought was to hide the documents, which he did, shoving them unheedingly into the pocket of his robes and not paying a bit of mind to the fact that he would surely have ruined the parchment as he did. His next thought was _Potter_ because there was no one around, no Disillusioned shapes spying him as far as he could tell, and the Boy Who Lived had developed a bad habit of sneaking up on him whilst invisible.

" _Oi,_ you great pillock," the disembodied voice whispered again. "Behind you."

Ah. Blaise.

Reaching backward for the shelf that was at hand-level, Draco extracted a book at random and opened it, giving a single, curt nod that was Blaise's permission to speak.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been searching everywhere."

"I've been here, obviously," Draco whispered back, raising his eyes to do a quick scan of the immediate area. He drew his wand and flicked a _Muffliato,_ hoping that no one would happen along and see that he appeared to be talking to a book. "You might've found a better place to corner me."

"No time like the present."

"Get on with it, Zabini."

"I'm not certain whether I like the new Malfoy. You've become the proverbial wet blanket."

Draco rolled his eyes.

"Nott skived off Divination again - not that I blame him, of course, it's not even any sort of entertainment listening to the old fraud these days - but he hasn't been frequenting the common room. He's never in bed at night."

This was not news. According to Blaise, Theo hadn't slept in the seventh-year dormitory in more than two weeks.

"Have you been through his trunk?"

"He's gone and warded it. I haven't managed to break through the enchantments without alerting him that someone's been tampering."

 _Fuck._

"What about his school bag?"

Blaise snorted softly. "Never takes it off his shoulder, does he? During lessons, he sets it between his feet or else in front of him on the table."

 _Fuck._

"Fuck."

"Yea, well - he's getting worse, by the looks of it. Dark circles under his eyes, losing some of his color." Snicker. "Not unlike a certain Death Eater I knew last year."

"Stop making gratuitous assumptions, Zabini."

"Oi, you could act a bit more grateful. You're not the one putting your neck on the line to get information you aren't even actually privy to."

"Sorry," Draco whispered hastily, shaking his head in the hope of clearing his turbulent thoughts. "I'm sorry. I'm a bit on edge."

"Git."

"...How are the others?"

Silence.

The next time Blaise spoke, he was notably less comfortable. "We haven't spoken about it yet. Daphne's been busy writing to her parents, and Tracey hasn't said much of anything."

This, at least, was easy for Draco to comprehend. The Greengrasses and Davises had thus far been politically neutral, though sympathetic to Voldemort's cause. For their families, it had been the safe option. Now it wasn't.

"So, Millicent's gone, then?"

"Haven't seen her. I figured you'd have more solid information on that front."

Did he? Draco had wondered whether Bulstrode, Macmillan, and Abbott had been whisked away by the Order and hidden in one of the safehouses. Draco knew there was more than just Grimmauld Place, but the locations were a mystery to him. _A security measure,_ he thought bitterly.

"I haven't."

"Right. Well, I suppose I'll be off. I've spying to do, after all. If there's nothing else?"

 _Let me help you._

"No."

There was no response, and after a few moments of waiting, Draco glanced down at the book he'd been pretending to read upside down. _Fool._ He shoved it roughly back into its place and left.

.

* * *

.

"I see you have returned. Your search has proved fruitless, I gather?"

After leaving the library, Draco had spent the next several hours wandering aimlessly through the castle's many corridors. During his musings, he had encountered fewer than five other students and eventually decided that the dark tidings of death had driven most of the school's inhabitants either to their dorms or out onto the grounds while the weather could be still be braved. It was crisp rather than freezing in Scotland, but after October, it would take more than light jumpers to ward off the cold. They were enjoying what small pleasures they could.

It was all the better for Draco, who wasn't sure he could handle it if he saw another pureblood student fearing their parents' demise. His Head Boy title was never one that he had taken seriously, but now, when younger students were more in need of assistance and comfort than ever before, he felt a sense of duty to them that he wasn't sure how to approach. They would never come to him for help. Hermione, maybe - but never him. Draco was meant to make himself available to others, but what would he have said to him if they did? He was as lost as they were.

In the end, he'd allowed the Grand Staircase to have its fun with him. Draco knew from _Hogwarts, A History_ that the castle was borderline sentient and had a mind of its own, but really, there were limits. In the ancient buildings infinite wisdom, the staircases had led him here.

"We solved your riddle," Draco said.

The portrait of Rowena Ravenclaw stared majestically down at him through fathomless black eyes, and again, Draco was assaulted with the feeling that the founder's likeness was looking _through_ him rather than at him.

"We?" Ravenclaw asked knowingly. "Or she?"

Draco had to make a serious effort not to sneer. The portrait would probably run off if he did. "She. Not that it matters. I could have figured it out myself, she was just quicker."

"Perhaps," she conceded. "You, too, have been blessed with considerable intellect, but you refuse to put it to good use."

"I'm trying to put it to the best use I can," Draco said, annoyed. "But your riddle led us nowhere. What good is your daughter if she's dead?"

The portrait gave a delicate _harumph_ and adjusted the curtain of her robes. "I am dead and have still been able to offer my knowledge."

Draco thought this was a debatable point, but didn't say so.

"We've done our best with the riddle you've already given us. If you would be so kind as to offer another…?"

Ravenclaw merely gazed down at him with cool indifference. "And where are your friends?" she asked conversationally. "They _are_ your friends, aren't they? You told me as much during your last visit. Surely your alliances are not so short-lived?"

Draco looked away and grimaced. "They're my friends. One of them is, at least."

"You are referring to the girl." It wasn't a question.

He glanced back up at her and shrugged. "That's right."

"A strange union," she said. "Though not unheard of. Is it for her that you are so intent on discovering an ancient and legendary artifact?"

Clearing his throat and trying to be as deferential as possible, Draco said, "Lady Ravenclaw, the motives behind our search are pure. We don't seek your diadem out of greed or self-regard."

The portrait seemed to contemplate him from her perch on the elaborately painted high-backed chair, her refined features giving away nothing of her thoughts. "I believe you," she said at last, and Draco felt a flutter of hope that was soon extinguished. "However, nothing comes freely in this life. It is a lesson you have yet to learn, young Slytherin."

Draco disagreed but again kept this sentiment to himself. "Please - you have to understand." He tried to keep the desperation out of his voice but wasn't sure that he was entirely successful. "People are dying out there, more and more of them are losing their lives each day. You have to -" He stopped. Making demands would get him nowhere, fast. "Please consider this from the point of view of the living. Families are being torn apart, destroyed. The Ministry of Magic is being infiltrated and it's only a matter of time before it's overthrown. A very _short_ matter of time. And from there, I think you know what'll happen next. The school will be compromised, a castle full of innocent children will be under the direct rule of a homicidal maniac."

Ravenclaw gripped the arms of her chair and leaned forward. Draco counted seven lavish rings adorning her hands. "You are developing the presumptuousness of the Gryffindor house," she hissed. "It is a deplorable trait to have. How dare you suggest that my dominant concern is not for the safety of the school which I helped build?"

"Lady, you misunderstand me -"

"I misunderstand nothing," she snapped. Ravenclaws. "Your wish is for me to direct you to my diadem with no effort on your part to obtain it. You are opposed to honest work, very much like Salazar Slytherin himself."

Draco spared only a moment for his indignance before it dawned on him.

"You don't know where it is!" he accused, taking a step forward. "All this time, you've been stringing us along a dead-end trail because you're too proud to admit that you were the one who lost it."

"Nonsense!" the portrait insisted, but Draco was attuned enough to the nuances of expression to recognize panic when he saw it.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Draco pressed, drawing even closer. Ravenclaw shot back into her chair and narrowed her eyes menacingly. "Your dominant concern _is_ for the school. But you can't tell us where it is because _you don't know."_

"Impudent boy. Do not speak about that which you have not the ability to understand!"

"I understand it well enough, I think," Draco continued unrelentingly. "Lady, if your loyalty is truly to this school, then please -"

"You know nothing of loyalty!"

"Was it your daughter? Did she steal the diadem from you, Lady Ravenclaw?"

"You have no business prying into my personal affairs."

"It is my business!" Draco shouted wildly. "It's everyone's! Didn't you hear what I said? _People are dying!"_

Rowena Ravenclaw was terrifying as she stood, her sweeping dark hair falling in front of her shoulder as rose to her full and intimidating height. If she wasn't just a painting, Draco might have stepped back; as it was, he stared her down and willed her to tell him what she knew, but Ravenclaw seemed more interested in taking him to task than sharing her secrets. A hideous snarl marred her beautiful face as she prepared her response, but at the last moment, something gave her pause. She was looking over his head now.

"You have company," she sniffed, and Draco whirled around to see that Potter was casually approaching. Impeccable timing as usual.

Draco felt suddenly foolish as the other wizard came nearer. He'd been so caught up in trying to wrench the information from a sodding portrait that he hadn't realized there'd been an audience.

"Potter," he acknowledged tersely.

"Malfoy. I see you've managed to run her off."

Turning, Draco saw that Potter was right. Rowena Ravenclaw had apparently decided that the pair of them were no longer fit to be graced with her presence. Draco sneered.

"It doesn't matter anymore," he said, glaring at the now empty frame. "She's useless. She doesn't know where her own heirloom is."

He braced himself for the inevitable explosion, fortifying himself to be told that he'd just made a complete cock-up of everything, but to Draco's surprise, Potter nodded. "I reckon you're right about that. I probably wouldn't have guessed it… you got more out of her than ever I did."

Draco eyed him in his peripheral vision. "You've been to see her?"

"Yeah," Potter admitted, and Draco watched as the other boy mirrored his stance until they were both facing the wall, hands shoved into their pockets, not looking at one another but at a portrait who wasn't there. "A few times. She never really talked to me, though. Not like she did you."

Draco turned up his nose. It was hard to ignore such an opening. "It's hardly astonishing. I'm far more sophisticated than you are."

"If by sophisticated you been snobbish."

"Hmph."

There was a weighted silence that neither wizard sought to break. Finally, Potter said, "What do we do now?"

Draco sighed and shook his head desolately. "Haven't the slightest, Potter."

He could feel Potter's gaze now but did not turn to look at him. "You said you recognized it, too. The diadem, I mean."

This was a fact that Draco had been lingering on ever since Potter had revealed that he'd seen the diadem somewhere before. The trouble was, Draco couldn't imagine what place they both might have frequented that gave them an opportunity to have seen it. Borgin and Burke's, perhaps - but Draco would surely have remembered something like that. It was a unique and, frankly, lovely piece of jewelry, but if it had been in that sordid shop, someone would have seen it for what it was, given that it was crafted to resemble an eagle.

"I can't think where," said Draco.

More silence.

"Hermione's looking for you, you know."

Draco hesitated. He wasn't ready to face her, yet, not after… not after having seen the article about Mathilda Greene. He couldn't help but feel that he was putting her life on the line just by being with her. It was not a rational thought. Muggleborns were killed by Death Eaters all the time. No fewer than five or six of them were murdered after revels, and that number was only a percentage when compared to the raids. And yet, something about it had planted a seed of doubt and fear that was impossible to ignore.

"You have a map of the castle, Potter," Draco said. "You could easily have told her where I was."

"I didn't want to send her after you, in case you were… I dunno, not right or something, after what the _Prophet_ reported this morning."

Draco made a face. "You're saying I'd hurt her just because I'm a bit unnerved? Everybody is. If somebody was going to do her harm, it wouldn't be me."

Potter snorted. "Actually, I thought you might need time to think."

Draco looked at him and, for perhaps the first time in his short life, perceived that he and Potter might just have something in common. It couldn't have been easy to be Chosen One, to barely be of age and have everyone waiting for him to be their hero. Conversely, Draco was struggling with his own responsibility that he felt for his parents, and now, Hermione Granger. Neither boy knew how to protect the ones they cared about.

"But," Potter went on. "I feel that you ought to know, she doesn't take very kindly to this sort of thing. It's never worked out for me in the past. I wouldn't hide from her, even if she is scary as hell."

Draco laughed at that. "You said it, not me."

"Yea, well. Just don't tell her I gave you advice. She'll start asking us to be mates next."

"Good point," said Draco. "Why _are_ you helping me. I was under the distinct impression that you hated me."

"Hate is a relative word," Potter replied. To Draco, it looked like he was remembering something. "She's a clever girl, that Hermione. She knows what she wants."

Draco wasn't sure that she did.

.

* * *

.

It was after midnight when Hermione finally tracked him down. She'd been everywhere looking for him, and under normal circumstances, she'd probably have just assumed that he was in the library or watching the Room of Requirement, a task he'd recently delved into with a fervidity that had, at first, surprised her. But these circumstances were anything but normal. Hermione hadn't needed to speak with Draco to know how he must have been affected by the deaths of Millicent Bulstrode's parents. She wasn't a pureblood, but she didn't need to come from a long line of wizards to understand the need to protect one's family, and after a thorough search of the castle that yielded no results, she'd resorted to the one place she least expected him to be.

The climb to the top of the Astronomy Tower left her winded as it had always done, but the reward more than compensated the toil. Draco Malfoy was sitting rigidly on the edge of one of the tower's many embrasures, staring out over the grounds with a pensive expression. His platinum blonde fringe swayed slightly with the air that was flowing through the circular room, and he gave no indication that he had noticed her arrival. For a moment, she simply watched him.

"How did you know where to find me?" he asked without turning.

She smiled softly as she sidled over to him. "Process of elimination. Don't tell me you're going to jump."

"Making jokes about suicide is in poor taste, Granger."

"Hark who's talking," Hermione jabbed, swinging her leg over the embrasure and pulling herself up to sit beside him. This time, when she looked down at the dizzying drop to the ground below, the vertigo was much less intense. _He did that for me,_ Hermione thought fondly. "You'd be the best judge of jokes made in poor taste."

He raised his eyebrows at her, but she could tell he was teasing. "Perhaps I _am_ going to jump. Then how would you feel after I was dead?"

Hermione rolled her eyes and nudged him with her shoulder. "You aren't," she said confidently. "You're not that selfish anymore."

Looking at her, he asked, "And just what is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you know how much you'd be missed and that you wouldn't take the easy way out."

Draco looked thoughtful again. "Do you ever think about taking the easy way out? Not offing yourself, but just… leaving? Running and never looking back?"

Hermione directed her attention forward, observing the barely-there line of mountains on the horizon where the landscape was bathed in inky blackness. The moon's illumination beyond the clouds was limited, the texture of night even thicker than it had been on Friday when they had flown together for what had, by the end of the evening, amounted to more than two hours. It seemed so long ago, though it had only been a weekend passed. It felt like a lifetime ago, before things had gotten so much worse. But it was always like that, Hermione admitted to herself. Things got worse every day, even if the _Prophet_ chose not to mention it. The semblance of the Ministry's control had always been fraudulent, but Hermione could feel with a bone-deep clarity that things were progressing at an alarming rate now. They were, she knew, speeding exponentially faster toward an end - one that Hermione was not sure that they would all survive. No side of a war made it out unscathed.

Which brought her to the question at hand.

"Sometimes," she confessed, and it was barely more than a whisper. "But I could never abandon this, as much as I admit that I often want to."

Draco looked mildly startled by her answer, and she laughed.

"Oh, come off it, Draco," she said. "Even Gryffindors get scared. You had no trouble pointing that out to me before."

"That's true." Draco faced the darkness again. "It makes me feel a little better to know I'm not the only coward."

"You're not a coward," she told him sharply. She remembered how many instances she had told him that he was one and regretted it. How wrong she'd been. "I know you wouldn't leave… you have too much at stake. There's too much for you to lose."

Draco appeared to be considering her words. "That isn't the same reason you do it, though. Is it?"

Hermione thought she understood his meaning. "Yes, and no. I do it because it's right. It isn't only my family and friends who are being threatened - it's everybody else, too. Other witches and wizards like me, and eventually, Muggles. Like my parents."

Draco slid his hand into her own, and she savored the warmth of his contact. When he didn't speak again, Hermione did.

"I think about them, too," she said quietly, and Draco's eyes locked with her own. "Even though they're safe and far away from England, I still think about them. I still worry about what might happen if Voldemort finds out where they are. It isn't even logical, I know - but there's nothing you can do about it, is there? You never stop needing to protect the ones you love."

Draco rarely, if ever, talked about his parents. In the past, Draco had become furious and even violent when she as much as mentioned them. _Well,_ she corrected herself, _his violence was a response to mine, but still._ In the time that had passed since those physical quarrels, Draco never brought up Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, but she knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his fears were more legitimate than hers. Not only were his parents still in London, still in the country and only a matter of miles away from Voldemort at any given time, but they had permanently attracted their ex-Dark Lord's hatred. They were in more danger than Monica and Wendell Wilkins ever were.

"I think about them all the time," Draco said hoarsely, and the strain in his voice told Hermione everything she needed to know. Squeezing his hand, she rested her head against his shoulder and sighed. There was nothing she could say to palliate those doubts.

"I've been to see Snape," she began instead.

"You mean _Professor_ Snape."

"Shut it, Malfoy," she said affectionately. "I think he's warming up to me."

"Oh?"

"Yes. He only insulted my intelligence once during the whole conversation."

"Only once?" he asked with distinct amusement. "You may be his favorite student, after all. What did you badger him about this time?"

"Millicent, Ernie and Hannah."

"I'm surprised he even gave you the time of day."

"It wasn't without a lot of convincing on my part. He eventually gave in, though."

"Probably wanted you out of his office. You can be quite annoying."

"He said they've been taken to a safehouse, but he wouldn't tell me where. Not Headquarters."

"I thought as much," Draco said.

"He also… they won't be able to attend their parents' burials."

Draco jerked away from her so he could make eye contact. _"What?"_

Hermione winced. She'd anticipated this reaction. "I know," she said regretfully. "But it isn't safe, not when they're at so great a risk. The _Prophet_ will have printed the locations of the funerals."

"They could send them with Aurors," Draco argued, although there was nothing Hermione could have done to change it.

"I suggested the same thing, but Professor Snape said it was a unanimous decision within the Order. If any of them attend the burials, there'll be an attack… it isn't worth it, he said."

Draco growled, and his grip on her hand was tight and painful. "It isn't right. Millicent deserves to be there when her parents are laid to rest. The Order could use it to strike offensively, to draw Voldemort's forces into the open -"

"Oh, Draco," she said, ignoring the pain in her fingers because she knew it was the only thing that kept him holding onto his rationality. "The Order isn't going to use teenagers as bait for the Death Eaters."

He looked furious. "Is it really so different from what they're doing now, Hermione? They're already letting _schoolchildren_ fight their war for them."

"Because there isn't any other choice," she countered calmly. "I never put much stock in Divination, but we've already seen that Voldemort made the prophecy true -"

"The sodding _prophecy,"_ Draco spat. "Is not a good enough reason to put the fate of the Wizarding World in the hands of a boy wizard who isn't even fully trained. The Order is meant to be leading this resistance, but they aren't doing shite."

"They're doing what they can," Hermione said. "Which isn't much, but at least Millicent, Ernie and Hannah are safe where they are."

"For now."

"Yes, Draco. For now."

Next to him, Hermione could almost feel the heat of his anger as it radiated off him. He was becoming less and less like the self-centered boy who had called her Mudblood for so many years. She wondered if he saw the changes in himself the way she did, and if so, what did he think of them?

"The Slytherins are afraid," he said sullenly.

"Everybody's afraid, Draco," she responded, knowing it wouldn't reassure him.

"No, _especially_ the Slytherins."

"They have cause to be, I suppose. The Bulstrodes' death is… out of the norm. Are they speaking to you again?"

"No," he answered quickly. "Only Blaise. But I can tell. They're all… they think they'll be next. The ones whose families have never taken one side or the other are scared that their parents will join up with Voldemort, which is horrifying enough without bothering to take into consideration that they'll be murdered if they don't. And after their parents are gone, there'll be no one left to keep them safe. Not even this school can stand against him forever. It isn't an impregnable fortress."

"Well…"

Draco faced her, eyes narrowed.

"Spit it out, Granger."

"I was only thinking… well, maybe you could - I don't know. Talk to them?"

He stared blankly at her, waiting for her to finish.

"You could try to tell them that Voldemort's way isn't the right one. And from there, maybe they can convince their parents to -"

"They're afraid their families will be killed if they resist him," he interrupted. "There's no chance. We're talking about Slytherins here. Self-preservation is in their nature."

"But if their parents join the _Order,_ not only will they have all the protection it entails, but they won't be alone. I think it's worth a shot."

"And you want _me_ to talk to them?" Draco snorted. "They don't trust me anymore."

"The older ones might not," said Hermione. "But the younger ones don't have the same history with you as the rest. They aren't going to care whether or not you're a _'blood-traitor.'_ All they're going to see when they look at you is a Slytherin who defied the odds. You can be an example for them, Draco."

He shook his head. "And then what? Feed them lies and empty promises the same way the Ministry is doing with the rest of Wizarding Britain? I'm not in any position to offer them or their parents' protection. I can't pack them up and ship them to Grimmauld Place or another safe house, and neither can you."

But Hermione wasn't ready to let this go. She was in too deep to turn back now. So many possibilities lay before them, so many opportunities to save lives - to stop Voldemort from building an even larger army than he already had.

"We can talk to the Order members who are in the castle and see what they say. Maybe there's more help to offer than either you or I know."

Draco threw up his hands. "And just what, pray tell, do you suggest we do to draw them in? Make an announcement at breakfast? Let me repeat myself." He spoke very slowly, as though explaining something very basic to a stupid child. _"They. Are. Slytherins._ They're not just going to flock to us where everyone else can see them. If they come at all, it will be individually. Alone."

Hermione wanted to cross her arms over her chest to show how obstinate she was. But she wasn't willing to sacrifice the use of both her hands when she was still sitting on the window sill. Instead, she grasped the edge of the stone and leaned close to him.

"We'll do it the same way Harry, Ron and I managed it in fifth year," she said luringly, and Draco angled his head away from hers.

"Don't say it, Hermione," he warned.

"We'll start a -"

"No."

"- Defense group."

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, that turned my life into one long night seven times sealed._

 _Never shall I forget that smoke._

 _Never shall I forget the small faces of the children whose bodies I saw transformed into smoke under a silent sky._

 _Never shall I forget those flames that consumed my faith forever._

 _Never shall I forget the nocturnal silence that deprived me for all eternity of the desire to live._

 _Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes._

 _Never shall I forget those things, even were I condemned to live as long as God Himself._

 _Never._

* * *

 ** _A/n: I don't have time to go through the reviews and find any mentions because I'm rushing out the door to start my training. That'll last through Thursday, I'll try to get an update to you guys by Friday._**

 ** _Just know that I love and cherish you all._**


	31. Dumbledore's Army

**A/n: I couldn't make it to training today because I got a flat tire on the way there from my other job.**

 **But the good news is that the next chapter is the last of the reposts! Get ready for new material, guys. : )**

 _ **.**_

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _Suddenly someone threw his arms around me in a hug: Yehiel, the Sigheter rebbe's brother. He was weeping bitterly, I thought he was crying with joy at still being alive._

 _"Don't cry, Yehiel," I said. "Don't waste your tears…"_

 _"Not cry! We're on the threshold of death. Soon, we shall be inside… Do you understand? Inside. How could I not cry?"_

 _I watched the darkness fade through the bluish skylights in the roof. I no longer was afraid. I was overcome by fatigue._

 _The absent no longer entered our thoughts. One spoke of them - who knows what happened to them? - but their fate was not on our minds. We were incapable of thinking. Our senses were numbed, everything was fading into a fog. We no longer clung to anything. The instincts of self-preservation, of self-defense, of pride, had all deserted us. In one terrifying moment of lucidity, I thought of us damned souls wandering through the void, souls condemned to wander through space until the end of time, seeking redemption, seeking oblivion, without any hope of finding either._

 _In a few seconds, we had ceased to be men. Had the situation not been so tragic, we might have laughed. We looked pretty strange! Meir Katz, a colossus, wore a child's pants, and Stern, a skinny little fellow, was floundering in a huge jacket. We immediately started to switch._

 _I glanced over at my father. How changed he looked! His eyes were veiled. I wanted to tell him something, but I didn't know what._

 _The night had passed completely. The morning star shone in the sky. I too had become a different person. The student of Talmud, the child I was, had been consumed by the flames. All that was left was a shape that resembled me. My soul had been invaded - and devoured - by a black flame._

 _So many events had taken place in just a few hours that I had completely lost all notion of time. When had we left our homes? And the ghetto? And the train? Only a week ago? One night. One single night?_

 _How long had we been standing in the freezing wind? One hour? A single hour? Sixty minutes?_

 _Surely it was a dream._

 _._

* * *

.

"Do you think they're alright, Draco?"

"They're with the Order now. I'm sure wherever they're being hidden is Secret-Kept."

"You know that isn't what I mean."

"... Millicent's always been a strong girl. Ridiculously so."

"At least they've got one another to lean on, even if they haven't got their friends."

Snort. "Yes, I'm sure Macmillan and Abbott are quite enjoying Millicent's company."

"Draco Malfoy, always the pessimist. Perhaps something good will come out of it after all."

"I tire of this idea that throwing contrary people in close quarters will force them to like each other."

Soft laughter. "But it works, sometimes, doesn't it?"

"... Yes. I suppose it does."

"Still. To lose your parents... It's horrible. And then to be isolated from the rest of the world afterward, to not even be allowed to attend the funeral…"

"They're strong, Hermione. They've got to be."

"It's _awful._ It's so… so - God, Draco, I can't even imagine."

"You've got a better idea than most have."

"It isn't the same. My parents are alive and - _hopefully_ \- well… even if they don't -" Her voice cracked. " - remember who I am. Their parents are gone. There isn't any reversing that."

"Hey. Don't cry, Hermione."

"You must think me so silly. Crying over a family that isn't even my own."

"Hardly. I'm not going to call you silly for being upset."

"There was a time you would have done."

"I'd have called you much worse, back then."

"Only… I'm scared, Draco."

"You're safe with me. I promise. No - _look_ at me. I won't let anything happen to you."

.

* * *

.

Hermione lowered the age-worn article and, with shaking hands, set it gently down on the table. It was all she could do not to drop the yellowed parchment as though it burned, vile and repulsive as the content it reported was. Pulling in a quiet, gasping breath, Hermione waved her wand to banish the _Prophet_ into her beaded bag. The last thing she needed was for another library-going student to see what she had been looking at, or, God forbid, for Draco to sneak up on her and peer over her shoulder, which was a habit of his. His first question would surely be to ask who Mathilda Greene was and why Hermione was researching the circumstances of her death; she wasn't sure that she was a good enough liar to come up with an impromptu cover story. Then, with a pang of deep remorse, Hermione realized how traitorous it was for her to be lying about it in the first place.

This was Draco's life, Draco's family. This was his father, the man who had raised him to hold identical beliefs to his own. The man whom Draco idolized.

The man who led his Muggleborn lover to a brutal death.

It was no painless _Avada_ but a savage, ruthless attack that had ended the young girl's life. Draco had a right to know what Hermione knew. He was entitled to it.

It _shouldn't_ change anything, should it? Not if their relationship was as solid as she hoped it was. But… _this,_ this cruelty and sadism, the betrayal of Mathilda Greene? Would Draco's opinions be affected, if he knew? It was far worse, Hermione thought, than anything else Lucius had done to her knowledge. For some reason, it was hard to imagine Draco just brushing it off his shoulder and accepting it for what it was.

But what if he _did?_ What if it did not come as a surprise to Draco that his father was guilty of so heinous a crime? Oh God, What if he didn't even _care?_

She was going to be sick.

 _In actuality, no such fondness for her existed…_

Snape's words, ones that Hermione found it impossible to shake out of her head now that she knew for certain what Mathilda Greene's fate had been. She'd believed him when he told her, for the simple reason that Professor Snape had no reason to lie about it: the Unbreakable Vow wouldn't have compelled him to fabricate a false story for Hermione's benefit, and Snape had already explained in no uncertain terms that he didn't give two knuts about his students' relationships. But Snape hadn't told her how terrible it was. Mathilda Greene's death completely transcended the term 'violent'. Vicious didn't even begin to describe…

But Lucius had been responsible for terrible things for decades, hadn't he? Draco knew that. He was evolving in the most inspiring of ways, but he was also family and honor bound. What if, at the end of the day, his relationship with Hermione wasn't enough to break those loyalties?

It would change everything, and Hermione didn't know if she was ready for it. Would this be the ultimatum that Draco was faced with, like the one his own father had been given so many years ago? Lucius was a broken, shell of a wizard, locked away at Grimmauld Place for his own protection. But there was something to be said for the safety of the rest of the Order if _this_ is what Lucius Malfoy was capable of. Hermione couldn't just let this ride, couldn't let him stay in that House with Ginny and Molly when he was so obviously evil.

 _They already know what he is,_ an unwelcome, snide voice in her head told her. It sounded suspiciously like Professor Snape. _What makes you think that they'll be rid of him just because Mathilda Greene is so like yourself?_

 _Good point,_ a much weaker part of herself responded, and Hermione's stomach rolled.

She decided not to rush into action until she had an opportunity to give it some more thought: the time for brash, Gryffindor recklessness was passed. She needed to think and deliberate before she made any plans - that's what Draco would have done, right?

But her hands continued to tremble as she swept her gaze over the table in the library, on top of which several books of different kinds were spread in no apparent order. Rowena Ravenclaw. Wandlore. Occlumency. _The Tales of Beedle the Bard._ Healing spellbooks. _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._

There was still so much work to be done. Hermione felt as though she was trying to push against a sturdy brick wall, desperately trying to fathom a way to get over or around it when all the clefts were too high for her to reach. It was like viewing a vast, complex Arithmantic matrix, the equations for which being impossible to figure because there were so many as yet unidentified variables. Like trying to fit a puzzle without all the pieces. There _was_ a solution, she knew. There had to be something that brought all these seemingly unrelated factors together, but what did Beedle have to do with Voldemort? What did Grindelwald's defeat have to do with Draco? What did a Deluminator have to do with Ron? None of it made even the smallest bit of sense, but Dumbledore wasn't revered as one of the greatest wizards of all time for nothing.

It was positively infuriating, to know that she was only a few steps away from a discovery and to be utterly incapable of getting there. And what was worse, Ravenclaw didn't know where her own diadem was. If _she_ couldn't find it, what hope did the rest of them have? What if the diadem wasn't even a Horcrux at all? What if they were wrong? Tom Riddle had inquired about it when he was a student, but did that necessarily mean he'd succeeded in uncovering it? Hermione didn't know.

There was just so much she didn't _know._

And on the outside the castle's wards, people were being killed. Pureblood, half-blood and Mudblood didn't seem to matter anymore. There was nothing to distinguish Muggleborns from the Sacred Twenty-Eight. Anyone man, woman or child who stood in Voldemort's way forfeited his or her life, and those of their family as well.

And what were the saviors of the Wizarding World doing just now? Homework. Lessons. Laughing, joking, flagrantly breaking school rules to have flying lessons at midnight. Forming defense groups as though basic hexes would stop Death Eaters killing people.

Hermione sighed, propping her elbows on the table and pressing her forehead into her hands. Slender fingers met resistance in the tangling curls of her hair, and she shuddered under the sheer gravity of the undetermined future. Hermione couldn't ever remember feeling so despondent. Was it the ghost of Mathilda Greene that had dragged her to such depths? It was certainly unlike her to be thinking so miserably about a Defense club that she, herself, had suggested. _Of course,_ it would help; anything would help, no matter how outwardly insignificant it seemed at first.

Better students have some kind of preparation rather than being vulnerable when they were eventually met with wizards who were so vastly superior to them in skill.

Not that they necessarily needed any further instruction: Professor Snape, for all of his obvious reverence of the Dark Arts, was the best Defense teacher they'd ever had. Not even Lupin could hold a candle to him. Hermione would go as far as to say that the students of Hogwarts were better trained to handle Death Eaters than they had ever been before, but preparation wasn't the only, or even the most important, reason for the DA's assembly.

Someone had to think of the Slytherins. Because no one else would. No one else _wanted_ to, and the more Hermione thought on it, the more time she spent dwelling on the injustice of their situation, the clearer it became that the rest of the wizarding Britain was just as responsible for the way so many of them turned out. The number of Slytherins who went wrong _was_ staggering, a point that she had to concede if only for the statistics of it all - but on the other hand, how many of them went that way because there were so few options open to them? They'd been _bred_ into hatred and prejudice, _born_ into the Dark Arts. And if they didn't really want it, no one cared: they'd already been labelled from the moment the Sorting Hat announced their house. Untrustworthy. Sneaky. Evil.

How many of them joined Voldemort's ranks just because their parents had done? Someone had to show them that there was another way.

Harry had been eager enough to start up a defense group, but Hermione wasn't really expecting any opposition from him in the first place. He'd thought rounding up Dumbledore's Army was brilliant, and Ron had been quick to agree: anything that distracted them from the truth while simultaneously contributing to the war effort was an idea well-executed.

The first evening had gone spectacularly. There had been a huge influx of students, most of whom had heard about it through the Prefects' meeting where Hermione and Ron had made the announcement. Astoria Greengrass had been the only Slytherin to show up, and she'd stuck mainly to Draco, which Hermione wasn't really worried about. Yes, she was gorgeous in ways that Hermione could never hope to be, but Hermione trusted Draco implicitly. It had, of course, helped when Astoria had cast a Binding Curse so swiftly that Draco's _Protego_ was not fast enough to block it. It had been quite frankly hilarious to see him caught so entirely off-guard by Astoria's proficiency, but even more encouraging was the fact that the _rest_ of the students had cheered. They'd welcomed Astoria easily, but that may only have been because she was friendly and popular, and not typically Slytherin in the most obvious of ways.

It was tonight's meeting that gave Hermione nerves.

Draco and Blaise had some sort of plan for recruiting more of their house, but Hermione didn't know what it was. She hadn't had a chance to speak to him since they'd concocted whatever devious scheme they had brewing, though if history was anything to go by, it wouldn't be long until Slytherins started pouring in. With any luck, there would be more than just Draco and Astoria at this evening's gathering, but it was hardly a warming thought. There was just no gauging Harry's reaction to things anymore, given how often he swung between angry to emotional to quiet to explosive and back again. Harry was a wildcard. It could go several different ways with him.

But Ron would be furious no matter what.

.

* * *

.

The seventh-year boys' dormitory was much lonelier as of late. Not that the dungeons weren't always, in their way, rather desolate. As a rule, they were almost always full of Slytherins, who usually preferred to be there instead of anywhere above ground, but regardless of that, the cavernous rooms and the eerie green-tinged light that sifted through the Black Lake lent the feeling that the Slytherin rooms were solitary and abandoned, even when they weren't.

Right now, though, _this_ dormitory had been almost entirely empty for more than half a month, and out of the five beds that circled the room, Blaise Zabini was the only wizard to currently occupy one.

Vince and Greg had been gone since the beginning of October and were presumably still being held at the Ministry for their crimes. Blaise hadn't heard anything beyond what his fellow students already knew and therefore had no idea whether they'd already sat trial in front of the Wizengamot for attempted murder. He was sure that Draco would have mentioned it if he were called in as a witness, though Blaise reasoned that Veritaserum would have provided sufficient evidence to secure a conviction without further testimony: neither Crabbe or Goyle was sly enough, or indeed _powerful_ enough, to resist truth serum. Probably, they were already beginning their slow decay in Azkaban.

Strangely, Theo's absences at night had begun at around the same time as Vince and Greg's arrest. Blaise wondered whether those two things were in any way related - the three boys _did_ share a common loyalty, after all, but there was only so much speculation to be made without any new rumors circulating around the castle from which to draw conclusions. Theo never commented on his private life, and even though Blaise had managed to worm his way closer to the other boy, that hadn't changed. He'd always been a loner and was never inclined to join Draco's little gang.

Draco.

The last of Blaise's former roommates, who _wasn't_ missing from the dormitory because he was doing the Dark Lord's bidding, but in fact, just the opposite. Draco ruddy Malfoy, tucked away in his cushy, Head Boy common room with a Muggle who Blaise knew to be one of Draco's worst enemies. Only, she wasn't anymore.

Draco could say what he liked and could deny it until the day he knocked on Death's proverbial door, but Blaise wasn't deceived. It was obvious - perhaps not to others, as blind as they all were, but to Blaise's watchful eye, the two of them may as well be shouting it from the top of the Astronomy tower. There was only one thing that could have stopped Draco from being such an odious git. Apparently, it was Granger.

Well, Blaise could safely say that no one had seen _that_ one coming, but just because Draco had developed a penchant for defying any and all former expectations others had of him didn't mean that Blaise understood it. Alright, so maybe she didn't have overly large front teeth anymore, and okay, maybe she was pretty… but it was hard to look past that unruly mane, mostly because it was everywhere. She was so bloody _annoying,_ and even that was the least of reasons why Draco shouldn't be involved with her. She was, and this was very important, a Mudblood.

Blaise fully expected that, at any moment, the earth might stop spinning on its axis, or that gravity would cease pulling them all toward the ground. Or for the Chudley Cannons to win the World Cup. All these things sounded probable in a world where Draco Malfoy deigned to sully his immaculate bloodline with a Muggle-born witch - and more importantly, a Muggle-born witch who was Potter's best friend. Did the last six years amount to nothing? Evidently not.

He supposed it was possible that Draco was just shagging her. Even to Blaise, the thought of living in such close proximity to an attractive girl without taking advantage of it seemed unlikely. But for some reason, he didn't think that was the case. Draco's whole demeanor had undergone a vast shift from one end of the spectrum to the other, and although the insufferable prat hadn't stopped carrying himself like royalty, there was something that was intrinsically different from the Draco Malfoy of olde. Blaise had to admit that he liked the new prat much better, but that still didn't explain the how and, for Merlin's sake, _why._

As an outsider looking in, Blaise could say that yes, the girl probably challenged him. As his intellectual rival and a bull-headed Gryffindor, Granger probably defied him in all the ways Pansy had never done. But Pansy Parkinson was the bottom of the barrel in terms of the women who Draco, as the Malfoy Heir, could have at his disposal if he were only to say the words. Blaise didn't think Granger was as superficial as all that, however, and as completely mental as the idea was, neither was Draco.

 _Anymore,_ Blaise reminded himself with a soft snort.

Yes, it was all very curious. So curious that Blaise had already resolved not to let the issue drop. If one knew how to approach it, Draco was very easily rattled on top of being just a tad over-protective. Blaise would get it out of him one day quite soon.

Now, if he could just get this sodding _trunk_ to open, he might have a better excuse to speak to Draco.

Snapping the disguised cover of the book he'd checked out from the library shut, Blaise looked up and glared at the trunk in question. The trunk, for all its being a completely inanimate object, seemed to be staring back at him with the air of something that knew it could not be broken into. It carried, Blaise thought whimsically, the same sort of calm and aloof disposition as its owner, Theo Nott, whose flat green eyes were nearly always shielded and gave no hints as to what lay behind them.

Yes, it was just a fucking trunk, but after hours of Blaise's mentally draining attention, it was a summarily _frustrating_ just-a-fucking-trunk.

He could take the Gryffindor way out and force himself through the wards, but this was a task that called for circumspection and prudence. It wouldn't be worth it to show his cards when he wasn't sure if he would find anything of value inside, and Blaise was certain that blasting his way in would alert Theo magically that someone was meddling. The more of a feel Blaise got for just what sort of ward it was, the more positive he became that the enchantment was password-protected - and _those_ wards were likely to notify the caster no matter how far away he was. To give credit where credit was due, this was an advanced enchantment, far past NEWT-level.

Blaise wasn't surprised that Theo was capable of it, because Theodore Nott was a manifestly powerful wizard, at least to those who knew him well enough to make such judgements. But _why_ Theo had researched such impressive magic was a mystery, and one Blaise had every intention of discovering.

But not now. _Now,_ there were other matters to attend, and he'd spent far too long on this one.

Tossing the book on 'wards and barriers' into his own trunk, Blaise scowled darkly at the one that continued to thwart him before gathering his flask and exiting the dormitory. As he ascended the cool black stone of the staircase, the common room swam slowly into view the way images of subtle luxury did when they were swathed in darkness. The view of the lake cast strange shadows over things where it mixed with the dim, improper lighting of the green lamps placed around the room's circumference.

It was a ghostly setting in which to spend the formative years of his life, but it was home, and at any rate, it certainly beat the Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw common rooms, which he had seen and not been dazzled by. With a quick scan of appraisal, Blaise covered the distance to the most populated area - the one where the highest number of students were sure to eavesdrop on his conversation.

Sliding gracefully onto the leather couch, Blaise draped his arm nonchalantly over Tracey's shoulder and gave her a devilish grin. She made no move to shrug him away.

"There you are," Daphne remarked from his other side. "You've been missing for hours."

"Yes," agreed Tracey suspiciously. "Where _have_ you been?"

"Looking for you, Trace," answered Blaise seductively, bringing the flask to his lips and taking a generous swig.

Tracey pouted. "Not looking very hard, apparently."

"Traceyyy." Blaise drew out her name with an admonishing tone as he tilted his head. "What better way to spend my time than with you, love?"

"Tossing off, probably," called Jackie Dennis, one of the fourth-year Beaters. A chorus of snickers broke out among the group.

"Probably." Tracey nodded with a sly smile.

Blaise only smirked. "Next time, I'll be sure to send you an invitation. You quite enjoyed it last time, if I recall."

Tracey did not blush but, in a show of perfect Slytherin impassivity, examined a set of pristinely manicured nails. "A dalliance that benefited you far more than me."

"If only because you suffered my lowly company," Blaise replied easily, offering her the flask.

Tracey accepted it without hesitation, and, raising her eyebrows at him, took a delicate sip without even the slightest grimace at the bitter taste of Firewhiskey. She always could hold her liquor.

Next to Dennis, Brad Thomas eyed the flask with interest. "Planning on sharing, Zabini?"

Blaise gave him a haughty look. "You aren't of age, Thomas. Pity."

Daphne scoffed. "As though that ever stopped us before."

Thomas muttered something that sounded suspiciously close to "stingy git," but Blaise wasn't near enough to catch it.

"So," Blaise drawled leadingly. "I hear the Gryffindors are making quite a stink of things."

"As per usual," Tracey commented loftily. "You say it like they're unaccustomed to scandal."

Daphne tutted. "Don't be a gossip monger, Blaise."

Blaise turned to look at her. "I see _you've_ already heard," he surmised. "From whom?"

"Astoria. Weasley and Granger made an announcement of it during a Prefects' meeting," she said, squaring her shoulders. "And for the record, I don't think it's very becoming of you to spread rumors."

"Not rumors, Daph," said Blaise superiorly. "Facts. I'll happily spread them when they're to do with a Slytherin bringing disrepute on his house."

Daphne seemed to bristle, in as much as Slytherin women ever did, which was not very much at all. "It's hardly disreputable to try to protect yourself."

"Ah, but it isn't just _himself,_ is it?"

"If you two are done," Tracey said, giving them both a pointed look. _"I'd_ like to know what the pair of you are on about."

Meeting her eyes with a mischievous grin, Blaise said, "Draco and his Gryffindor lot have started a Defense Club."

"Again?" Tracey questioned, punctuated with a long-suffering sigh.

"It isn't totally _amiss,"_ Daphne said tightly.

At the tables that were nearest to their set of shared couches, Blaise noted with no small amount of pleasure that several of the younger Slytherins were no longer paying attention to their homework. Having yet honed their skills at seamlessly listening in on others' conversations, their hands had stilled and their heads were turned just slightly in his direction, perhaps waiting for the other shoe to drop, but more likely keen to get the information being dangled in front of them. Blaise would satisfy their curiosity.

"Not totally amiss for those who don't know where their allegiances are," said Blaise.

"Everyone can benefit from learning Defense," Daphne argued. "It isn't some exclusive honor for Gryffindors."

"Certainly not," Blaise said. "Plenty of Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws involved, if hearsay is reliable enough to go on. And of course, there's Draco. Though he can hardly be counted a Slytherin at all, can he?"

"Astoria's a Slytherin, and _she's_ joined up."

"So I've gathered. Tsk tsk. What will your parents think?"

"It won't matter," said Daphne. "They've already returned to the Netherlands."

Blaise knew she was lying. "Then why don't you go on and join up, Daph?" He allowed his eyes to rake over her form. "Cowardice runs in families, as far as I can tell."

"I don't need lessons in Defense. It doesn't concern me."

"Doesn't it?" Blaise inquired, eyebrows raised.

Tracey narrowed her gaze. "Don't be vague, Blaise. It isn't as if we're in mixed company. Just say what you mean."

Facing her, he assumed his best air of superiority. "Do I actually need to spell it out for you lot, or are you being thick on purpose?" Tracey stiffened; it was the desired effect, and he leaned in a bit closer to her. "'Neutral' isn't going to cut it anymore. You all read the _Prophet,_ you've seen who's missing from school. You know what's coming."

"Who ever said anything about being neutral?" asked Tracey, her eyes not leaving his.

"You haven't said anything about taking sides, either."

Tracey raised her chin, handing him the flask. "It's implied."

"It was _implied_ for the Bulstrodes, too," Blaise countered. "And look where that got them."

Daphne made a disapproving noise and said, "You haven't exactly tipped your hand, Blaise."

Swinging his head back round to look at her, he passed her a knowing smirk. "I haven't got to. My future's as secure as Draco's is, only I've thrown my lot in with the _winning_ circle."

"You sound so sure of yourself," said Daphne lightly. "You always were gifted in the art of bravado."

Blaise snorted. "And you really think that The Boy Who Lived to be a Prat is going to best the Dark Lord?"

"I haven't said that, have I?"

"Not in so many words," Blaise admitted, taking a long swig of the flask. "But it's clear enough, I think. Either way, this isn't fucking Switzerland. It's high time you lot made a choice. Be certain it's the _right_ one when you do."

.

* * *

.

Draco was on his way to the Great Hall for dinner when Daphne accosted him. It had been done quite gracefully, which was so unlike what he'd become accustomed to during his recent dealings with Gryffindors that he was completely surprised by it. Harry Potter and his ilk (and Draco happily tossed Hermione into that category) thought that confrontations were best suited to dragging people into empty classrooms and rushing into dormitories, wands blazing as they leapt headfirst into argument. Daphne had taken a much calmer, composed approach, quite simply falling into step beside him and sliding her arm surreptitiously into his. It was a platonic gesture which he knew had been perfected over years of being raised in high pureblood society, but Draco still cut his eyes left and right, hoping that Hermione wouldn't see it. She'd almost surely misunderstand, and trying to explain the Slytherin pomp to her wouldn't be an easy conversation.

And so they walked, arm in arm, toward the Great Hall, neither looking at one another but straight ahead.

"Hello, Draco," greeted Daphne pleasantly.

"Daphne," he acknowledged. "You may want to rethink your forwardness. People may get the wrong idea."

"For heaven's sake," she responded jokingly. "Everyone knows that I'm engaged."

Draco glanced down to her left hand, where a magnificently large diamond ring glittered in the low light of the corridors.

"Not even close to what I was suggesting."

"I know," she said simply, and then her tone became serious. "Not all of us want this, Draco."

"That's hardly the impression I've got from you and Tracey in the last several days," he said, aware that he probably sounded just slightly petulant.

"Don't start trying to lay blame," she scolded gently. "After everything, you should understand."

He did, actually. "And to what do I owe the pleasure of lowering yourself to speak to me?"

"Blaise mentioned in the common room earlier that you and the Gryffindors have started another Defense Club."

"Your point, Greengrass?"

"My, Draco. You _have_ been spending a lot of time with Gryffindors, haven't you? You've lost your talent."

He arched an eyebrow. "More like I haven't the patience or an inclination to dance around meanings."

"Fine, then," she said airily. "Have it your way. Some of us might be interested."

It was more than he could possibly have hoped for. He'd known when Hermione brought up the idea of a Defense Club that it would be a good idea, but only if they could actually manage to get the Slytherins involved. He hadn't dared be too optimistic, but there it was. It was a small step toward what Draco had wanted, but a step nonetheless: they'd be that much closer to accepting help when the time came.

" _Are_ you interested, Daph?" Draco questioned her skeptically. "We don't need anyone showing up just to have a look around or try to sabotage what we're doing. It's more important than people realize."

Using the arm that wasn't entwined with Draco's own, Daphne arranged a sheet of long, golden blonde hair over her shoulder and sniffed. "You would be arrogant enough to think that you and your new friends are the only people who realize how important it is? Dear Merlin, Draco, and I thought you'd changed."

"I have to be sure. Especially if you've heard it from Blaise - the little sod has been looking for an excuse to get back at me after last week. This would be a perfect opportunity for him."

Daphne scoffed. "You always think everything's about _you,_ Draco. So sorry to disillusion you, but guess what? It isn't. You know that the Slytherins are scared - you should be the first to see that things are rapidly changing."

They had come to the doors of the Great Hall, where several students were shooting them curious looks as they passed by. Draco disengaged his arm from Daphne's and faced her, searching her eyes for a long moment. He wished it was socially acceptable to use Legilimency with no warning - if it was, he'd know whether Daphne was being sincere or not. Finally, he said, "The Prefects' meeting room on the fourth floor, after dinner. Bring the rest of them."

.

* * *

.

Draco was more anxious than he could remember being since the start of term. On one side of the door, battle was being waged within the confines of a normally unused classroom, directed by Harry Potter and his band of do-gooders; on the other side was Draco, standing at the head of a group of Slytherins who were all staring at him, waiting for him to lead them into the Defense Club. He didn't know what sort of reaction they would face when he did. Draco and Hermione had discussed it at length to no suitable conclusion, other than that Potter and Weasley would likely be furious, then suspicious, and then, _hopefully,_ they might accept it.

Draco didn't want to be overly confident, given the fact that Weasley was still as hostile toward him as ever and equally averse to all things Slytherin. He had higher assurances for Potter, who was at the very least, friendlier to Draco than he had ever been before.

Draco placed his hand against the door and turned to look at the following who had gathered to see what the Defense Club was all about. Tracey and Daphne were there, both looking stunning and put-together, refined chins held high, each with their wands peeking out from the sets of arms that were folded across their respective chests. Brad Thomas and Jackie Dennis had also shown up, which was a surprise: both Beaters had been blatantly hateful during Quidditch practice. But Draco was going to count it as something of a blessing - it _had_ been his goal to help as many Slytherins as possible.

Two others were present, younger students whose names Draco didn't know - a boy and a girl, who, from the way they stood together and apart from the rest, appeared to already be close friends.

The last and smallest Slytherin was Charlene Walters, the little first-year girl who had trailed him through the castle at Pansy's behest. She wasn't any more agreeable now and was staring up at him with baleful dark eyes as though waiting for Draco to make the tiniest of slips. At only eleven years old, Charlene was already a cynic. He snorted softly at the irony: Draco had been just like her when he was that age, viewing the world through a lens of distrust. He supposed that he hadn't made a lot of improvement on that front.

It was a small turnout, but it was something.

Draco cleared his throat. "Whatever you do, don't back down," he said, unable to come up with anything close to a pep-talk. He wasn't the same sort of leader that Potter was and had never drawn friends or lackeys by being encouraging. Draco sneered, then, adding, "And try not to embarrass yourselves."

Draco pushed the door open and sauntered into the room with a tenacity that he didn't feel, listening as the _clicks_ of the Slytherins' shoes behind him became louder and more pronounced with the gradual fading of the noise of battle in front of him.

One by one, the members of the DA, new and old, stopped their dueling and turned to see who had intruded.

 _Merlin,_ Draco thought disdainfully. Did they even _realize_ that they had already formed a defensive wall against the Draco and the Slytherins he had brought along with him, or was it unconscious reflex that they automatically took on combative stances at the sight of them? The only two who hadn't gone into attack-mode were Hermione and Astoria, and out of both of them, there was only one who didn't look surprised. Hermione was smiling beautifully and offered him an encouraging nod; Draco could tell that she hadn't expected a whole seven to turn up.

The room was totally silent as Draco came to a stop, forming an asymmetrical line where the Slytherins were the ones vastly outnumbered.

At last, somebody spoke. Draco wasn't at all shocked to find that it was Weasley.

"What are _they_ doing here?"

"They're here to learn how to protect themselves," Draco announced, fighting to maintain a casual demeanor. It wasn't easy. Weasley was a fucking git.

"What for?" someone else asked, a fifth-year Ravenclaw whom Draco wasn't acquainted with.

"They haven't the need for it!" This, from some Hufflepuff toward the back.

"Send them away, Harry!"

"They don't belong - "

"Can't be trusted -"

"But we know who _their_ parents are -"

"Slippery, the lot of them -"

Draco chanced a look at Hermione, who had already pushed her way through the crowd of students and was whispering something in Potter's ear. Their dark-haired leader was shaking his head, bending his head close to hers and gesticulating with his hands as Hermione argued tooth and nail against whatever he was saying. From here, it was obvious that Potter didn't like what he was hearing, but in typical Granger fashion, Hermione didn't seem to care. She waved her hand toward Astoria, and then to Draco - Potter shook his head again. Hermione tilted her head menacingly at him and bit out some obviously scathing response, to which Potter quailed and actually took a step away from her.

She really was scary, wasn't she?

He could hear the shifting of the Slytherins' robes as they awaited Potter's decision, and Draco ground his teeth. How dare any of these _students_ decide who was fit to learn self-defense and who was not?

"In case you lot have forgotten," Draco said loudly, and everyone's heads snapped up to look at him. "Nearly everyone here is underage. When the Death Eater's come, they aren't going to give a damn about who is or isn't a Slytherin. Voldemort -"

There were several gasps, and Draco almost had to roll his eyes. Surely he wasn't the first to call the Dark Lord by his designation with Potter and Granger here to lecture people on the fear of names.

 _" - Voldemort_ won't have a care for who he kills. Who's to say he won't attack this lot as well?" He jabbed his thumb backward to indicate the Slytherins who were gathered behind him.

Weasley stepped forward, his wand still clenched tightly in hand. "So You-Know-Who kills the Bulstrodes and all of a sudden they all want to change sides?"

Draco felt his own eyes narrow and his lips peel backward from his teeth, ready with a retort to put Weasley back in his place - but Daphne beat him to it, moving to stand beside Draco with her chin tilted upward.

"We hadn't taken a side before," she growled with low fury. "You just assumed we had because we're Slytherins. How's _that_ for prejudice?"

"Right, you hadn't taken a side until you realized you weren't safe," countered Weasley. "The way I see it, you're just hedging your bets until the winner comes out."

"Are we?" intruded a smaller voice, and everyone turned, as one, to look down at Charlene Walters, the tiniest person in the room, suddenly seeming much larger for the bravery in her tone. "Are we hedging our bets, or are we just scared like the rest of you are?"

Weasley's face flushed red. "You're just -"

"What would Professor Dumbledore have said, if he knew you were denying us the right to learn Defense just because we were Slytherins?"

Draco had to admire Walters' cunning.

"You're only a first-year!" Weasley said hotly. "You barely _knew_ him. You haven't a right to use him against us, you're only twisting words."

Charlene waved a dismissive hand. "Everyone in the Wizarding World knows Dumbledore. This _is_ Dumbledore's Army, isn't it? He's meant to be the champion of equality. I don't see much equality here."

A chorus of murmurs broke out among the group, and Draco could just catch a few bits of argument. Some of them were convinced, he could hear, but others were still maintaining their obstinance, insisting that there was no reason for the Slytherins to be there.

"No. She's right," said Potter slowly, and every witch or wizard in the room turned to face him. He raised his voice so he could be more easily heard. "Dumbledore would want us all to know how to protect ourselves, wouldn't he?" He spread his arms as though to indicate the now much more diverse motley crew. "It wouldn't matter to him what house we were from, and it certainly won't matter to Voldemort."

More gasps, more cringes.

"Harry -" Weasley started to say, but Potter shook his head.

"No, Ron. I think…" Potter looked over toward the Slytherins, squinting his eyes. Was he wondering whether he was making the right choice? "I say we let them stay. We're all in this together, aren't we?"

.

* * *

.

The defensive lessons catered mainly to age and skill. Draco had to admit that Potter had an astoundingly good grasp on just what he was instructing: he had set different pairs of students together based on their year-level and what he'd already seen them capable of. The two unnamed Slytherins whom Draco had brought along were engaged in a duel that consisted mostly of Disarming spells, while a few others who were a bit older were practicing Shield Charms. Weasley was working with Brown, which was funny, because she was far less prepared than him and he was quite obviously holding back: Ron was hesitant, Draco realized, to send any hexes or jinxes her way at all, and the result was that Weasley effectively dodged pretty much every spell she shot at him without offering any offense in return.

Daphne and Astoria didn't hold the same reluctance toward each other, although they were sisters. The two of them were attacking each other so viciously that Draco made a point to look away from them, and even Potter was skeptical about getting too close. Mostly, the Chosen One walked between the groups and offered pointers to those who didn't have a full understanding of the defensive spells they were trying to cast. All in all, it was going remarkably well for a group of mostly untrained students, and there hadn't been any serious injuries so far.

But there was an underlying current of tension throughout the room that hadn't been there the previous evening, especially wherever Gryffindors and Slytherins met, which wasn't new. Draco hadn't been fool enough to think that bringing his house into Dumbledore's Army would absolve all the hostility that had been built over centuries of hate, but it was a start.

Hermione was on the other side of the room putting Michael Corner to shame. As usual, Draco was acutely aware of her position, always able to sense her when she was near, even as distracted as he was by his own duel with Terry Boot - which was going well, if Draco did think so himself. Boot was tiring quickly, and it was a mere ten minutes into their battle that he threw his hands up, panting.

"Alright, Malfoy," he breathed. "I'm done, I can't go on anymore."

"You can," Draco ground out through his teeth. "The Death Eaters aren't going to cut you a break just because you're worn out. I might have killed you just now."

And out of nowhere, a head of bushy hair rushed into his line of vision. Hermione's face was flushed with exertion, a very endearing light in her eyes as she smiled up at him. "Hey, Malfoy," she said breathlessly. "It's turned out better than we thought, hasn't it?"

Draco grinned down at her. "I suppose it has," he said proudly, looking out over the group and focusing on each Slytherin as he or she dueled eagerly against other members of the DA.

" _We?"_ asked a snarling voice, and Draco whipped around to see Weasley. Brown was beside him, watching vapidly on as her boyfriend approached. "You mean to say you were in on this, Hermione?"

Hermione crossed her arms over her chest. "And what if I was, Ronald?"

"Only that living with the likes of him has finally driven you mad," Weasley said unkindly. Draco didn't know if he was angrier at the slight against himself or the one made at Hermione.

Draco snorted, letting his gaze travel from Weasley's second-hand shoes up to his flaming hair. "It's not polite to insult a lady, Weasley. Though I suppose you wouldn't know, given your family's state of poverty. I guess they don't teach you manners where you come from."

Draco saw Weasley's hand tighten around his wand. "We have different ideas of what manners are, Malfoy."

"Oh, yes," Draco said caustically. "You're obviously much more refined than I. Where did you get your robes? They don't cover your ankles, you know."

"Malfoy -" Hermione began warningly, but Draco held up his hand.

"No," he said firmly, not breaking Weasley's gaze. Draco thought he could hear Hermione's mouth snap shut. "This is nothing to do with you, Granger."

"You can insult my family for being poor all you like, _Malfoy,"_ said Ron crossly. "But it won't change the fact that you're scum."

Draco sneered. "Care to put your money where your wand is? Or haven't you enough gold to wager?"

Weasley glared darkly back. "I'll bet a Galleon you lose."

"Oh-ho," mocked Draco. "Big spender, there." Weasley raised his wand, and Draco smirked, backing away. "Let's do it the proper way, shall we?"

Draco watched as Weasley's face pulled tight with anger, and the other wizard paced backward. Already, the other occupants of the room had fallen silent except for a few whispers, and the students cleared off to allow Weasley more space.

Draco could practically feel the anxiety radiating off of Hermione as one of the Patil twins hauled her out of the way, but he would not look at her. His focus was only for Weasley, who held his wand up in front of his face. Draco mirrored the movement and both wizards bowed.

No sooner than Draco straightened out did Weasley cast the first spell.

" _Reducto!"_

Draco slashed his wand. _"Protego!"_

The Reductor Curse rippled across the Shield but was not strong enough to break through it; Draco staggered a bit - the force of the curse was more powerful than he had anticipated, coming from Weasley.

" _Incarcerous!"_ Draco shouted, and Weasley wordlessly parried the spell, which rebounded back toward its caster. Draco leapt out of the way in time to dodge it, but Weasley was fast on his feet.

" _Flipendo!"_ the red-haired wizard yelled, and Draco felt the blow directly to his chest. He went flying backward, crashing into the pile of stacked tables and chairs that had been pushed to the side of the room; Draco steadied himself swiftly enough not to fall to the ground and pointed his wand at one of the chairs.

" _Oppugno!"_

The chair sailed toward Weasley.

" _Reducio!"_

The chair shrank, and Weasley caught it deftly in his hand.

Draco smirked. _"Engorgio!"_

The chair expanded to three times its normal size, and Weasley stumbled under the crushing weight before throwing the chair away from his body and pointing his wand at Draco's legs. _"Locomotor Mortis!"_

Draco was almost too slow in his leap into the air, and he felt the magic surge beneath his feet and then slam into the table behind him. _"Tarantellegra!"_

This time, the spell hit its mark, and laughter erupted throughout the room as Weasley's own legs began their uncontrollable dance across the floor. Distressed, Weasley aimed his wand at himself and shouted, _"Finite Incantatem!"_

Weasley sank inelegantly to the floor, unable to recover quickly enough from the spell to stay on his feet, but then rolled promptly to the side, dodging the _Immobulus_ so easily that even Draco had to be impressed by it: clearly, Weasley wasn't as stupid or as useless as he looked.

" _Confringo!"_

Draco threw up his Shield charm with barely enough time to spare, glaring at Weasley as he did. That was by no means a friendly spell - it was quite dangerous, and not at all appropriate for a schoolyard duel.

"Ron!" he heard Potter shout, but Weasley ignored him completely, shoving off the floor with a threatening expression.

" _Expulso!"_

Draco parried, and Weasley jumped out of the way of the rebounding curse; the students behind him dived to either side as the tables and chairs exploded into engulfing flames. Draco was distantly aware that some student had put out the fire but paid no heed to it.

" _Furnunculus!"_

Weasley was too quick, expelling the curse with a wave of his wand. _"Densaugeo!"_

Draco dodged. _"Incendio!"_

" _Aguamenti!"_ Weasley shouted, and the flames that had burst from Draco's wand were immediately extinguished.

" _Protego!"_ The water slid off the Shield Charm, but Draco had another idea: lowering his wand just a fraction, barely enough to cancel the Shield, Draco allowed the stream of water to soak him - and the image of Weasley smiling triumphantly was superimposed on Draco's mind's eye. Using the brief distraction, Draco aimed his wand.

" _Confundus!"_ he roared, and Weasley, too elated at his victory, was struck directly in the face. Blue eyes went dazedly crossways, and Weasley shook his head in befuddlement.

"Wha…?" he muttered, looking around vacantly as though he couldn't quite remember what he was meant to be doing. His arms went limp at his sides, wand hanging loosely from his fingers. "Harry," he said brightly, turning to look at Potter with delighted surprise. "What're we doing here?"

Potter sighed, taking Ron by the shoulder as he gave Draco a strange, undecided sort of look. "Well done, I suppose."

Draco shrugged and cast a drying charm over his clothes. "It'll be my Galleon. Make sure Weasley remembers to get it to me."

.

* * *

.

Severus hated going to Grimmauld Place. It wasn't just the trek to Hogsmeade that made him so averse, though traveling by foot was definitely not one of the finer points of his increasingly more frequent trips to London. Spending time outdoors was not the problem, it was the damnable _house_ itself that set his teeth on edge. He despised having to subject himself to the rest of the Order, who were always, always suspicious of him, always questioning his intentions, always wondering which side he was really on. Some of them were more vocal about it than others, and many felt that Dumbledore's death ought to have been the end of Severus' involvement - for it had always been Dumbledore who had upheld Severus' position in the Order of the Phoenix. Now that the late Headmaster was gone, there was no one to defend Severus' loyalty, except, comically, Remus Lupin, and really, what was the use in delving into _that_ satire?

Yes, he hated going to Grimmauld Place, but Lucius needed the potion, and Narcissa needed Lucius to feel reasonably well. It was the least he could do, after already having failed to protect her son. Oh, Draco was safe at Hogwarts, for the time being. But how long until the Dark Lord pieced it all together?

Draco Malfoy had disarmed Albus Dumbledore. He was, if legend held true, the Master of the Elder Wand. The Wand of Destiny. The Deathstick. And Severus was certain that the Dark Lord was searching for it - he'd been abroad so often that Severus knew he had to be looking for something of great importance. If it were not so, he would send a lesser follower to do his bidding; Severus didn't believe the guise of 'recruiting in other countries' for even one moment. The Dark Lord was by no means a stupid wizard. He would eventually figure out that the Elder Wand was not-so-safely hidden inside Albus Dumbledore's tomb, and it would only be a short while afterward that he would discover that the wand was not functioning for him the way it ought.

And then what would become of Draco? Severus perished the thought, not wanting to contemplate the possibility of there being an even bigger target on Draco's back than the one placed on Harry Potter, and then felt the tingling of the school's wards as he passed through them and stepped into Hogsmeade. He turned on the spot, his body compressing into the mildly uncomfortable vacuum that was apparition _,_ and then re-appeared on a doorstep in one of the grimiest London neighborhoods Severus had ever had the displeasure of haunting. It was, in its slow dilapidation, well on the way to being as bad as Cokeworth. With a commanding wave of Severus' wand, the peeling door opened to admit him, and the wizard stepped silently as he could into the front hallway; waking the old harridan was not at the top of his to-do list, as dear old Walburga Black had become quite uncreative with her insults. It simply wasn't as entertaining to listen to her anymore.

The basement kitchen was, as usual, full of people - and he had heard the muffled sound of raised voices long before he actually entered the room. Molly bustled about making tea, which Severus did not understand. It was much too late for normal people to be indulging in caffeine, but none of the others seemed concerned in the slightest, for the wooden table around which they were all seated bore several china cups, all having been drained to the dregs. Arthur was there, sitting low in his seat with a haggard, hunted look in his eye - he glanced up and gave Severus a half-hearted nod; across from him was Mad-Eye Moody, who had just finished beating his fist against against the table when he raised his eyes and grumbled a coarse acknowledgement; Lupin was the worst of them, looking distinctly bedraggled in appearance. The full moon was only one evening away, and the Wolfsbane Potion which Severus routinely brewed for him would do nothing to mitigate the gradual descent of his health.

"Severus." Arthur nodded. "What brings you? It's late."

"Indeed," he responded. "And yet, despite the hour, it appears that I've interrupted an argument."

Lupin gave a weighted sigh. "There've been more disappearances - soon, there will be more Death Eaters and puppets than actual Ministry personnel."

Severus knew then why their bickering had been so vehement: the only reason the Dark Lord had not introduced an Imperiused Minister was tha the Ministry itself was not yet sufficiently infiltrated. Trying to overthrow the government too soon would be a disastrous move - the Dark Lord was efficiently biding his time until there was no chance he would face opposition. If more personnel were disappearing and being subsequently replaced by the Dark Lord's victims and followers, the closer they were to the attack that would put Voldemort officially in power.

"Why waste your breath explaining it to him?" Alastor interjected rudely. "You should already know, shouldn't you, Snape?"

Severus fixed him with a long stare but did not rise to the bait. Alastor was well aware that the Dark Lord did not summon Severus during the school term unless it fit his whimsy (which was rare in any case,) and Severus was not nearly irritated enough to allow himself to be goaded.

Severus looked at Arthur next, who answered. "Mafalda Hopkirk," he said in a quiet, rasping voice.

 _Oh shit._

The Improper Use of Magic Office were the ones whose job it was to place restrictions on underage witches and wizards - it was their responsibility to enforce the Trace, and as such, they would have a list of any and all British Muggle families who had produced magical children.

Pursing his lips, Severus said, "Has anyone been dispatched to the Granger residence?"

"Kingsley and a pair of Aurors have already gone," said Arthur, holding up his hand as though Severus might charge off into Muggle London at any moment. Severus sneered. "But they've been gone hours now with no report. We were just considering sending reinforcements when you turned up."

Molly sidled up fretfully. "Would you like some tea, Severus?"

"No," he declined simply. "I have no reason to stay -"

She pushed a china cup into his hand anyway, and Severus took a resigned sip. He'd long since ceased trying to resist Molly's hovering.

"Do you see much of Tonks, Severus?" asked Lupin hopefully, and if Severus were in a quarreling mood, he would have pointed out that Lupin was perfectly capable of checking on his wife without Severus' help - it didn't take a genius to figure out why Lupin had continued to have the Wolfsbane potion delivered by owl post rather than show up at the castle in person to fetch it. If he was so curious about Nymphadora's well-being, he should make some sort of effort to be there for her. As far as Severus could tell, Lupin was doing no such thing.

But as it was, Severus was not in a quarreling mood, and so said, "I believe I saw her trip over her own feet today."

Lupin chuckled. "She's feeling perfectly well then, I take it."

 _Crack!_

All heads in the kitchen turned to view the Weasley clock, which made no moves to change, and a few seconds later, Kingsley Shacklebolt rushed into the basement looking quite harried.

"They're gone," he said without preamble. "The Grangers are gone."

The table's occupants jumped to their feet. "Gone?" asked Moody loudly. "What do you mean _gone?"_

"Their home is completely empty. No sign of them at all. All of their belongings are missing - they appear to have relocated."

Molly began to wring her hands. "Well, perhaps they've fled the country. Hermione's always been a bright girl, perhaps she persuaded them to leave?"

"We can't take the risk, Molly," said Moody gruffly.

Indeed. Severus spun to face the rest of the room.

"Where is Narcissa?" he asked urgently. "If she is already in bed, then I shall leave Lucius' potion -"

"Oh, no," said Molly hastily, shaking her head. "She isn't in bed. She's in the library, with Ginny."

 _With Ginny?_

The library was only a short walk down the hall, and Severus made no pretense of knocking before entry. There was no time to spare - the Grangers were gone and there could be any number of possibilities as to what happened to them. Just because their things were missing from their house did not imply that they were safe, and even if they were, they would not be for very long. If they were anywhere in Europe, they were at risk. Pushing the door to the library open, Severus was greeted with one of the most curious sights he'd ever beheld, which was quite significant indeed.

Ginny Weasley was curled into an armchair, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea from which she was idly sipping; in the adjacent chair sat Narcissa Malfoy, her legs crossed at the ankles like the aristocratic society wife she no longer was, while her own cup of tea floated of its own accord at shoulder-level. They appeared to have been deep in conversation - more than that, they seemed to be genuinely enjoying each other's company.

Strange.

Severus raised a single eyebrow at Narcissa; she offered a one-shouldered, indifferent sort of shrug as she rose gracefully to her feet.

"Hello, Professor Snape," said Ginny.

"Miss Weasley," Severus murmured smoothly, looking pointedly down at her tea. "It is after Midnight. Does your mother know you're consuming stimulants when you ought to be in bed?"

Ginny's eyes darted away from his.

"Severus," said Narcissa. "I take it you have brought Lucius' potion?"

"I have," he confirmed, reaching into his pocket and revealing the stoppered bottle full of translucent, purple liquid. He handed it to her, and she accepted it gratefully.

"I cannot thank you enough."

Severus nodded to her. "I do not have time to linger, I'm afraid. A situation has emerged that requires immediate attention -"

"But surely you can spare a moment to tell me of Draco?" she interrupted, and Severus sighed.

It was impossible to resist Narcissa's persuasion. When he met her imploring eyes, all Severus could see was a woman who was more of a victim than a perpetrator, a woman who had been magically bound to a life she had never wanted, who had chosen a rat-bastard of a husband and turned out the worse for it.

"There is little to tell," he admitted at last. "Potter and his friends have started up a _Defense Group -"_ he spat the words. As if the little dunderheads could possibly teach the subject more adequately than he. "- which Draco is involved in."

"They've started up Dumbledore's Army?" Ginny asked incredulously, her temper evident. She sank back into her chair. "Of course, they don't start anything fun until I've already gone."

"It is quite a different group from before, I assure you," said Severus.

"How do you mean, sir?"

Severus could not resist the smirk that curved his lips then. "There are more than a few Slytherins involved this time."

Ginny gaped, looking suitably confused.

"But he is well, isn't he?" Narcissa's eyes were wide and hopeful.

Severus gave a curt nod, pushing thoughts of Draco, the Dark Lord, and the Elder Wand firmly out of his mind. "Yes, Narcissa. He is well. Now, I must take my leave, there is little time to squander -"

And then, just as he was turning to go, already thinking of the means by which he would wrest the information from Miss Granger about the location of her parents, the burning, scorching pain seared his wrist.

He was being summoned.

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _Suddenly, the silence became more oppressive. An SS officer had come in and, with him, the smell of the Angel of Death. We stared at his fleshly lips. He harangued us from the center of the barrack:_

 _"You are in a concentration camp. In Auschwitz…_

 _A pause. He was observing the effect his words had produced. His face remains in my memory to this day. A tall man, in his thirties, crime written all over his forehead and his gaze. He looked at us as one would a pack of leprous dogs clinging to life._

 _"Remember," he went on. "Remember it always, let is be graven in your memories. You are in Auschwitz. And Auschwitz is not a convalescent home. It is a concentration camp. Here, you must work. If you don't you will go straight to the chimney. To the crematorium. Work or crematorium - the choice is yours."_

 _We had already lived through a lot that night. We thought that nothing could frighten us anymore. But his harsh words sent shivers through us. The word "chimney" here was not an abstraction; it floated in the air, mingled with the smoke. It was, perhaps, the only words that held a real meaning in this place. He left the barracks._

 _In the afternoon, they made us line up. Three prisoners brought a table and some medical instruments. We were told to roll up our left sleeves and file past the table. The three "veteran" prisoners, needles in hand, tattooed numbers on our left arms. I became A-7713. From then on, I had no other name._

* * *

.

 **A/N: Mentions go to Gizzy's Mama, avantika . srinivasan, heart-adore-dramione, and joselinefoxcharter**


	32. Secrets

_**Night**_

* * *

 _One day, as we returned from work, we saw three gallows, three black ravens, erected on the Appelplatz. Roll call. The SS surrounding us, machine guns aims at us: the usual ritual. Three prisoners in chains - and, among them, the little pipel, the sad-eyed angel._

 _The SS seemed more preoccupied, more worried, than usual. To hang a child in front of thousands of onlookers was not a small matter. The head of the camp read the verdict. All eyes were on the child. He was pale, almost calm, but he was biting his lips as he stood in the shadows of the gallows._

 _This time, the Lagerkapo refused to act as executioner. Three SS took his place._

 _The three condemned prisoners together stepped onto the chairs. In unison, the nooses were placed around their necks._

 _"Long live liberty!" shouted the two men._

 _But the boy was silent._

 _"Where is merciful God, where is He?" someone behind me was asking._

 _At the signal, the three chairs were tipped over._

 _Total silence in the camp. On the horizon, the sun was setting._

 _"Caps off!" screamed the Lageralteste. His voice quivered. As for the rest of us, we were weeping._

 _"Cover your heads!"_

 _Then came the march past the victims. The two men were no longer alive. Their tongues were hanging out, swollen and bluish. But the third rope was still moving: the child, too light, was still breathing…_

 _And so he remained for more than half an hour, lingering between life and death, writhing before our eyes. And we were forced to look at him at close range. He was still alive when I passed him. His tongue was still red, his eyes not yet extinguished._

 _Behind me, I heard the same man asking:_

 _"For God's sake, where is God?"_

 _And from within me, I heard a voice answer:_

 _"Where is He? This is where - hanging here from this gallows…"_

 _That night, the soup tasted of corpses._

* * *

.

Severus had spent fewer than ten minutes in the decrepit house that was the Order's headquarters, but when he stepped back out and into the night, the temperature seemed to have dropped several degrees. Whether it was the actual mercurial October weather (which was unreliable in London at the best of times) or the chill of his own heart being crushed by tendrils of fear and anticipation, he did not know.

And really, it did not matter: there would never be a summons that Severus walked into without being absolutely positive that he was going to be killed. There were too many risks and too few Death Eaters who trusted him, and the Dark Lord's suspicious nature was forever susceptible to doubt. None of Voldemort's followers, except perhaps Bella, were foolish enough to openly contradict the faith their Lord had in his spy, but there would be whispers. There would always be whispers, the subtle nudges that would one day push the Dark Lord's innate wariness into actual, tangible conjecture.

For years, Severus had toed the very fine line of a sharpened razor blade and knew with certainty that it would be what eventually killed him. He could only pray to whatever entity was watching over them all, that the day when Potter would be ready to hear the truth of his fate would come soon. Severus had no silly illusions that he would survive this war, and on this night particularly, he had but one hope: that Theodore Nott would be waiting at the gates to be collected. For if the boy had been summoned as well, then perhaps Severus would not be on his way to an untimely murder. It was a sickening possibility, but one he lived with day in and day out.

With a tight spin, Severus disapparated. When the compression faded and Severus could breathe again, he stood in an entirely new setting. The village of Hogsmeade was quiet but for the rambunctious noise emitting from Madame Rosmerta's tavern; the windows of the Hog's Head, too, were lit with the dim glow of candles, its patrons not as boisterous but still drinking into the night regardless of their more subdued temperament.

Severus moved quickly toward the castle. The school's wards extended very far past the actual gate, and technically, Theodore would not have needed assistance to get out of them. Leaving the school and entering it were two entirely different things, but there was no reason for Severus to inform the boy of this fact. The less Nott knew about the ins-and-outs of the school's protective barriers, the better off the students would be. Severus was, for the most part, certain that Theo's task had something to do with assisting Death Eaters into the castle: there were few other possibilities, for one thing. With there being no overt moves to attack Draco or Potter, Severus could not imagine what else his objective might be - but it was best not to ask. He couldn't afford being required to offer his help.

At last, a towering wrought-iron gate appeared on the trail's horizon; Severus closed the distance swiftly, wand held aloft.

 _Homenum Revelio,_ he thought, and to his immediate right, the ghostly imprint of a tall, weedy boy drifted out from the trees. Severus thought he may have a heart attack from relief. If Theo was to be in attendance, then it was very likely that he, and not Severus, was the guest of honor.

Theodore Nott's lithe form stepped onto the path, wearing so infuriatingly smug an expression on his elegant features that the older wizard seriously considered hexing him for his impudence.

"That's hardly fair," said Theo, smirking as he approached the gate. He wrapped his thin fingers around the rails and eyed the iron with casual interest.

Severus narrowed his eyes. So, the boy _was_ trying to figure a way into the castle.

"If you did not wish to be found, you ought to have put more of an effort into your concealment," Severus said softly, raising his wand again and aiming for the sealed, wrought-iron juncture. He did not want to demonstrate how the gate opened, but there was no way around it. "A Disillusionment Charm, Theo? How… juvenile."

Severus needed no incantation as he drew his wand from eye-level toward the ground. Recognizing immediately that a teacher was compelling them, the latches clicked promptly open, and Theo took a step back to observe. It didn't matter, really, that the boy was paying so much attention. The gates would never open from the outside for a student, especially not one with foul intentions, but if Theo managed to guess as much on his own, he wouldn't bother wasting his time on it - he'd switch to something more effective, which was bad news for all involved.

Lowering his wand, Severus watched Theo; Theo watched the gate.

At length, Severus sneered, "Do you make a habit of dawdling when our Lord has requested your presence, Theo?"

The boy fixed him with an immeasurable look and smirked. "Only curious, Severus."

"Pardon?" the older wizard questioned, eyebrow raised.

"Only curious, Professor Snape, _sir,"_ Theo amended, pushing the gate open and striding forward.

Severus waited for the Theo to pass him before falling into step along the trail - he'd not turn his back on the boy, even if he was just a student. Theodore Nott was no Draco Malfoy, after all.

"Do endeavor not to be so brazenly disrespectful in front of the Dark Lord, Theo," Severus advised as they walked. "It would be greatly distressing to have to explain the unfortunate circumstances of your death to the Headmistress come morning, not to mention the revelation that there's another Death Eater in the school."

"And I suppose you'll be having a good long conversation with her, will you?" There was no inflection of mistrust, only a practiced, offhanded censure. As though they were discussing the weather and not treason.

"As the Dark Lord would have me do."

The boy gave a quiet humph, almost indiscernible amid Severus' heavy footfalls and Theo's lighter ones. "And what would the Headmistress have you do, _Professor?"_

"It is of no consequence. I only answer to her ostensibly."

"And yet, I haven't received a bit of help from you, covertly or otherwise," Theo said, and Severus could detect the finest strain of indignance laced into the younger wizard's speech - carefully concealed but threatening to make itself known. From this, he understood that Theo was closer to losing his composure than he had thought: the boy would never have allowed such a telling hint to surface in his tone if it were not so.

Mechanically, Severus formed the words he was supposed to say. "If you've required assistance, Theo, you need only have asked."

"You might have offered, Snape. We're meant to be brethren. Unless, of course, we aren't really - in which case your apathy makes loads more sense."

Severus sighed, as an older, more experienced Death Eater who was supposed to be Theo's mentor ought to have done. "Enough allegations, Theodore. I was under the impression that you were not to speak of your task," he said, feigning candor. "If I am in a position to help, then naturally, you must -"

"No," Theo interrupted firmly. "I don't need your help."

Severus felt himself sneer, almost reflexively. "How very like Draco you are."

"Don't compare me to that _traitor -"_

"Not your loyalties, boy," Severus snapped. "Your arrogance, however, is almost identical to his. He was too proud to ask for assistance when he was very _obviously_ struggling, and what was the result? Failure, betraying the Dark Lord, a swiftly approaching death in a shallow grave -"

" _Obviously?"_ Theo echoed, suddenly devoid of cautious detachment. He was all teenage petulance, now. "I'm not _obviously_ anything, _sir."_

"Oh?" It was much longer than a single syllable should have been. "And is that, pray tell, why you have been so conspicuously missing classes, receiving detentions for your unabashed tardiness -"

"I've been skiving off lessons for _years!_ It isn't as though my behavior's so different from what it was before -"

"Stop interrupting me, Mister Nott," Severus said quietly, but although his voice was not raised, the tone brooked no argument. Theo shut up. "Your behavior is appallingly close to what Draco's was last term. The signs are clear for all to see: you refuse to eat; your lack of sleep is evident in your pallor and the circles under your eyes; you fail to show up for such _minor_ obligations as lessons, and in a school, where your absence would surely have been noted." Severus snorted. "Quite fortunately for you, the Headmistress is operating under the illusion that, had you taken the mark, you'd have been involved in the incident concerning Draco and the Mudblood girl, and because of that misconception, you've been blessedly overlooked."

 _Mudblood._ The word tasted foul on his tongue.

"May I speak now?" Theo asked acerbically.

"I'd prefer you didn't," Severus responded. "However, if there is anything to take away from this discussion, it is that you must not give the staff any reason to suspect you."

"The staff? And what about the Golden _Quartet?_ Aren't they equally as dangerous?"

Despite himself, Severus imagined Draco reacting to that term and found himself releasing a genuine, barking laugh that was quite impossible to suppress. It had a rather good ring to it, didn't it?

"The Golden _Quartet,_ as you say, has not been correct about a single thing to this day. Nevertheless, they will, all four of them, be neutralized soon." Severus turned his head sharply to Theo. "Unless they _already_ suspect you?"

The boy did not turn to face him. "Not that I know of."

They had finally passed through the protection of the wards. Severus felt the slight magnetism as he crossed the invisible line; evidently, Theo felt it too. The younger wizard halted his stride, stopping just short of Hogsmeade, still under the shadow of the trees that rose up on either side of the pathway. It wasn't a good sign. Someone so young and inexperienced should not have been sensitive to such magical barriers, but apparently, Theo was.

Each wizard produced his mask, slipped his hand underneath the sleeve of his left arm, and answered his master's call.

.

* * *

 _._

 _He was dreaming. Of red hair and brown eyes and freckled skin. Of a lovely, calming sort of smell that reminded him of the Burrow. Of a soft, feminine laugh. And hands - smaller than his own, carding themselves through his hair. He missed her, but she still visited him, sometimes._

 _But only in his dreams. Only through her letters._

" _You're late," he said, but his voice was all wrong, strangely high-pitched, almost shrill. Sibilant._

 _And then Ginny was gone, and in her place, a masked and cloaked figure knelt before him._

 _No,_ two _masked and cloaked figures, and both of their heads were bowed, gazes directed at the floor._

" _Forgive me, my Lord," said a deep baritone that he recognized. It must have been Professor Snape._

 _His blood boiled._

 _The baritone rumbled again. "It is rarely easy to leave the grounds unnoticed."_

" _If you truly had the Order's trust, it would not be so," he heard himself hiss, but neither of the figures shivered under his accusation. It made him angry and yet… strangely satisfied._

" _My Lord, it is the boy who must remain undetected, not I."_

" _Yes," he said, agreeing. "Yes, you are right, my spy. Reveal your face."_

 _The man did, and the face was unappealing. A large, hooked nose - greasy hair and sallow skin. Snape knew what was coming, his black eyes calm and his disposition relaxed._

 _Memories flashed in front of his vision - images of Hogwarts, of students, of Harry Potter and his friends, laughing. Points deducted from Gryffindor house. Harry Potter walking alone through the corridors, the back of a scruffy head as he went - where? To his common room. Images of the Headmistress' office, of tea during the early hours of the morning, McGonagall's face drawn and pinched tight with worry. Yes, that was good. Images that were clouded, that he couldn't see, but in which he could sense, very vaguely, a dark and dilapidated house - the Secret-Kept house, he was sure of it. And voices - someone speaking:_

 _There've been more disappearances, soon there will be more Death Eaters and puppets than actual Ministry personnel._

 _Yes, that too, was good. Fear was good._

 _He searched for dishonesty, for concealment, for betrayal, and found none - but neither was there anything of use. He withdrew._

 _The faces, one masked and one unmasked, were there again._

" _Reveal your face," he commanded, and the smaller Death Eater pulled the shining, silvery cover away. Elegant features, but tired ones. A closed expression, longish dark hair. Pale green eyes. Theodore Nott. "What have you to report, Theodore?"_

" _My Lord, I am - that is to say, I_ believe _I am close."_

" _You believe, you are close?" he repeated, a mixture of skepticism and recrimination. "And why have you not already achieved your objective?"_

" _My efforts are ceaseless," the boy said in a voice that only trembled a little. "I have discovered a way, but it is difficult. Far more difficult than I had anticipated, my Lord. The magic is powerful. Powerful and ancient, my Lord."_

 _A long wand extended toward Theo, clutched by thin, spidery fingers, the color of alabaster - the tip of the wand found the boy's chin and tilted it upward, and then memories spanned across his vision once more. The castle, the grounds in the middle of the night - no, the Forbidden Forest, too far from the school for it to be anything but the edge of the castle's wards. A hand reaching out to touch them, the magic sizzling beneath its fingers - so, the boy could sense them. That was good. The boy was more successful than he had imagined, more efficient than he had hoped. Images of Pansy Parkinson, sans clothing. Not important. And then a starry sky - no a starry_ room - _the Great Hall? But no, it was too small and there were no floating candles, though the ceiling was similar. Must be the Come and Go room, but how had the boy discovered it? No matter. Visions of a powerful jet of magic, like lightning, crashing into the ceiling and flowing outward, not penetrating the ward. Visions of a handsome but worn reflection in a looking glass -_

 _He pulled out of the boy's mind with no finesse, and Theo, not yet accustomed to the brutal proddings, rocked back on his heels, a hand flying toward the ground to steady himself before he collapsed._

" _Severus." The voice was smooth, almost loving, a sickening parody of fatherhood. "You, my son, have always been my most loyal servant. Tell me, why have you refused the boy your assistance?"_

" _Theodore has made no appeal to me, my Lord. I wished to allow him the opportunity to prove his worth in your eyes."_

" _Yes," he mused. "My respect is a hard-won reward, I admit it. The young mister Nott does well, however - and yet, you, Severus, do not."_

" _My Lord knows I live only to serve."_

" _You have no intelligence to offer."_

" _There is nothing because the Order does nothing. They are terrified. They hide like hunted dogs, like cowards, and have not considered launching any sort of offensive against us."_

" _You have displeased me, Severus. Stand." Snape stood. "I think I shall allow your charge to do the honors. Theodore?"_

 _Theo rose to his feet, drawing his wand and meeting Snape's eyes apathetically._

" _Crucio."_

 _Snape buckled._

Harry Potter tore himself from the dream, shooting bolt upright in a restraining tangle of fabric. The thin bed-sheets had been ripped from the mattress, the duvet tossed haphazardly - somewhere in the room, obviously, but it was too dark to tell. Groping at his bedside table, Harry located his glasses and pushed them onto his face, casting wildly around the room. No one was awake. He must not have been screaming, then, but just like any other night, he was sweating, his scar burning with excruciating fire. He rubbed at it, pressing his fingers painfully into his forehead as he swung his legs over the side of the bed.

" _Ron!"_ he whispered, crossing the short space that separated their beds and shaking his best mate's shoulder. _"Ron, get up! Wake_ up, _Ron - fuck."_

Ron's eyes flew open, his hazy expression replaced quickly with alarm.

"Harry - what -"

" _Shhh!_ Get dressed," Harry said quietly, already pulling on his trainers.

There was no resistance, no hesitation before Ron leapt instantly out of bed, wand already in hand. "Where are we going?"

"Shoes, Ron. Put on your sodding shoes."

"Oh, Right. But where -"

"The Room of Requirement. And hurry. I dunno how much time we have."

.

* * *

.

Draco was very nearly asleep, which was perhaps not entirely out of the ordinary, given that the time was now fast approaching two in the morning. He'd stopped actively reading over her shoulder hours ago, partly because he trusted her to spot something interesting without his help, but mostly because he was just too bloody tired to go on. His eyes had begun to hurt somewhere between the Hopping Pot and Babbity Rabbity, though he couldn't be sure exactly - and that had, of course, been _after_ Hermione had completely exhausted _The Life and the Lies_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts._ He would eventually stop her before she decided to delve back into the elusive subject of Rowena Ravenclaw, but for now, Draco was content with the reassuring weight of her back against his chest and the quelling scent of her Muggle shampoo, the scattered remarks she would make to herself before she scribbled an annotation and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

Sometimes she would ask him a question, and he would jolt abruptly back into awareness, not only because he was drifting off, but because she was actually seeking his input and guidance. It was still strange to him that her two imbecile friends were no longer the first people she went to for - for _anything,_ really.

It was Draco, always Draco who was the first to hear her thoughts and ideas. Not that it was all that surprising: he _was_ infinitely more intelligent than either of those idiots, but still. It counted for something, didn't it?

They'd chosen the common room this evening. More conducive to reading, Hermione had said, though Draco had his own suspicions that it had more to do with the weather outside getting colder than it did her ability to focus. Neither of their dormitories was large enough to hold a fireplace, and the one which faced the couch they were presently tucked into was blazing and crackling with warmth. If she thought that being in the common room was going to stop him seducing her, she really didn't know him very well at all. As it happened, Draco didn't mind simply sitting with her, even if it was an ungodly hour of the morning, and even if they _did_ have lessons in fewer than seven hours.

"But that doesn't - that isn't at all what - hmm…" Her voice was soft and pensive.

Draco yawned. "Quit muttering to yourself, Granger. People will talk."

"But Draco, you said that _The Wizard and the Hopping Pot_ was about a cauldron that devoured Muggles. It isn't."

"Really?" Draco asked, curious now. "What have you read?"

"The son, burdened with the cauldron's reaction to turning the people away, finally helps them solve their troubles. The pot eventually goes quiet, and a slipper that fits its foot appears inside of it. Together, they walk off into the sunset."

Peering over her shoulder, Draco raised a skeptical eyebrow at the runes that were printed onto the page. "Well, it sounds like a perfectly joyful story with a happy ending, then."

"Oh, hush," said Hermione. "There's no need to be sarcastic about everything. What do you make of it?"

Raising a hand, Draco rubbed his palm into his eye and shrugged. "I don't know. I suppose it's possible that whatever my mother and father had at the Manor was different from this copy. This is a first edition -"

"And you think yours was edited because it was too friendly towards Muggles?"

 _Well, yes._

"It wouldn't surprise me," he said bitterly, thinking of his father's staunch hatred toward anything to do with Muggles, the hatred which he had taught Draco to share. "He'd not have wanted his own son to think it was okay to help Muggles with their problems."

Normally, this would have been the part where Hermione started to argue with him about Muggle rights or decided to bring up the subject of the Holocaust, but as she shut the book and leaned forward to set it on the coffee table, she was conspicuously silent. Catching the profile of her face, Draco could see the tell-tale signs of stress: the furrow of her brows, the hesitant look in her eye, the teeth that were pulling on her bottom lip.

"What are you thinking of?" he questioned, bracing his arm against the back of the sofa so he could sit up properly.

"Nothing," she said too quickly. "Only the symbol at the front of the book, you know, what it could mean -"

Draco sneered. "Don't, Hermione. You're a terrible liar."

"I'm not lying!" she insisted. "I just think that we ought to do a bit more research on what that symbol _is._ Dumbledore would hardly have been sure that we'd see it if it weren't absolutely vital, would he, and it's a part of his relationship with Grindelwald, I'm certain of it -"

"You're _rambling,_ Granger. Tell me what you're really -"

The portrait, he could hear, flew suddenly open with more force than he'd ever remembered it doing. There were several shouts which must have been the painting's subjects protesting the abuse, but a split-second later, their voices were muffled and far away, barely audible over the urgent steps echoing off the masonry stairwell; faster than Hermione could make any kind of move to jump back, Professor Snape appeared in the archway and was walking quickly into the room, a lethal grimace marring his already unattractive face.

Hermione scrambled to separate from Draco with a stricken expression, as though positive she was about to have points taken for physical contact with another student. "Professor Snape - er -"

"Quiet," the older wizard snapped, coming to an abrupt halt that sent the hem of a black traveling cloak dancing around his ankles. "I'm not concerned about your juvenile displays."

Hermione pushed herself off the sofa, and Draco followed suit. It was obvious that Snape was agitated about something, and a quick glance in Hermione's direction told him that she was thinking along the same lines: whatever he had to say was to do with the Order, and if Snape had come all the way up to the seventh floor to deliver the news, it must have been dire.

"Has - has something happened?" Hermione stammered apprehensively, and from the way she was folding her arms over her torso, Draco could safely guess that she wished she had a robe instead of being caught in her pyjamas.

"Where are your parents, Miss Granger?"

Apart from the snap of burning wood from the hearth, Hermione's sharp intake of breath was the only noise in a now very silent room. Her mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her eyebrows doing that expressive thing that was common when she didn't know what to say.

" _Well?"_ Snape prompted.

"Why -" Hermione swallowed audibly. "Why do you want to know?"

"Do not attempt to deflect my questions," Snape growled. "You will tell me where they are this instant, or I shall use other means to ascertain the information."

He was threatening her with Legilimency, Draco knew, which was very bad indeed: Hermione's shields were not anywhere near strong enough to resist him. Especially not him.

Draco cleared his throat and slipped his hands into his pocket, more confident now as he palmed the weapon that was hidden there. Snape looked angry and perhaps a bit unhinged. "Professor, surely you can offer a reason why you want the information _before_ you try to forcibly take it from her?"

Hermione's eyes darted toward Draco and away again, shaking her head almost imperceptibly. But he wasn't daunted in the least. He'd be damned if Snape was going to try and invade her mind, teacher or otherwise.

"How very noble of you, Draco. Do you plan to throw yourself in front of her in the manner of all the great love-struck heroes in Muggle literature?"

Draco tensed. _Love-struck?_ He was hardly - but really, that was going a bit _far,_ wasn't it?

"Maybe I should remind you that using Legilimency against students is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts," Draco said tightly, holding Snape's furious black gaze.

"I assure you that I run no risk of dismissal, Mister Malfoy," Snape warned quite slowly, turning his head just slightly to look again at Hermione. "Miss Granger, I am in a position to demand the information from you if I deem it necessary. I advise you be forthright before I make such a decision."

"Professor, forgive me," she said in a very small voice. "But I don't understand why you would want to know so badly."

"Mafalda Hopkirk has been… replaced," Snape said curtly, and Hermione gasped.

"Oh, my God," she whispered, horrified. "How - how many?"

"Several."

"H-how do you know? Are you sure?"

"I am _quite_ certain, Miss Granger."

Draco's gaze drifted downward and he could see, beneath the long cuffs of Snape's coat, that his professor's hands were given to slight, almost invisible tremors, a sure indication that he'd been under the Cruciatus Curse for some length of time. Draco realized suddenly that Snape had not been in the castle at all this evening: he'd been holding court.

"Who?" Hermione asked, and the single word quavered under her fear.

"It was… a rather extensive attack," Snape said haltingly, angling his head as though deliberating whether to give any further explanation. "The Creevey's. Flinch-Fletchley's mother. Miss Clearwater was at home when the Death Eater's called."

Hermione's cringed, her eyes shut tight. "Is that all?"

"No," said Snape. "There were many families whose children were not yet school-aged."

Another gasp. "They are - are they..?"

"Yes, Miss Granger. The children are dead."

Hermione's hand shot out, gripping Draco's shoulder even as her knees gave way. He hurried to take her weight against his own, not stumbling when she clutched at the collar of his nightshirt, wrapping both arms around her when the tears began to flow freely. He wanted to comfort her, to reassure her, but what could he say? _Oh, it'll be fine, Hermione. The kids are in a better place now._ Even the thought of such empty words made him wince with regret, and so Draco said nothing, holding her as her body shook with sobs that were muted by the expensive fabric of his pyjamas.

He looked up at Snape, almost in disbelief.

 _Dumbledore's dead, and you think this war hasn't started yet?_

 _You have no idea how bad it will soon become, Draco. You weren't even born when the Dark Lord was in power, you cannot possibly understand._

Draco remembered, now, that tense conversation between Snape and himself on the grounds. It had been the middle of the night, and Draco had acted like little more than an irate kid at the time. It seemed an age ago, but Draco realized with awful clarity that Snape had been right: Draco hadn't understood.

Now he did, and it was terrifying.

Looking at Snape, Draco saw that the older wizard was a curious, and rather humorous, mixture of awkward and remorseful. If the situation hadn't been so serious, it might even have been a bit funny to see a grown man so obviously uncomfortable at the tableau in front of him. Clearly, Snape didn't have much to say on the subject of his students openly embracing; Draco didn't know if that was because Snape was embarrassed by it or because he knew, as anyone with half a heart should, that there was no other way to console her.

"Anytime tonight, Miss Granger?"

Hermione nodded against Draco's chest and disentangled herself from his arms, wiping at red-rimmed eyes with the tips of her fingers. When she seemed to have regained some semblance of composure, she sniffed and said, "Professor, I - thank you for caring about what happens to my parents but -..."

" _But?"_ said Snape, annoyed.

"But they're already safe. I've -..." She pulled in a tremulous breath. "I've already taken steps to protect them."

"What sort of steps, Miss Granger?" Snape was very plainly irritated. "I can't imagine what you might think _you_ could accomplish in the way of keeping them safe."

"I'm afraid I have to ask you to trust me, sir," she responded, then promptly flinched, as though appalled by her own daring.

"Miss Granger, I confess that I didn't expect to have to _spell this out for you,"_ he said angrily, his tone becoming softer with every word. Anyone who knew Professor Snape knew that the quieter he got, the more dangerous he became. "Your parents are in grave danger, you silly girl. Now tell me where they are so that the Order can provide them with the proper protection."

"I'm - I'm sorry, sir, but I can't do that."

"I see," the older wizard snarled with no small amount of acidity. "It appears that the rest of our _organization_ is not alone in their mistrust of me. Shall I fetch Professor McGonagall? Professor Lupin, perhaps? I'm sure they'll not be bothered to be wrung from their sleep when it concerns the hesitance of their brightest and most favored student."

"No, no, Professor," Hermione said hastily, waving her hands. "That isn't the reason, of course I trust you. it's just -"

Snape snorted. "It's just _what,_ Miss Granger?"

Hermione looked at Draco pleadingly, appealing to him for the correct answer. The question was quite apparent on her face: should she tell him what only three people in the world besides herself already knew? Draco found himself asking her the same. The truth was, he didn't know. He shrugged at her, turning up his palms.

Her eyes flicked quickly to Snape, back to Draco, and then finally settled on their professor again. "I -..."

" _Spit it out, Miss Granger."_

"Iobliviatedthem."

Snape's eyes tapered menacingly, and he took a step closer. "You _what?"_

A deep breath. "I… I _Obliviated_ them and sent them away."

"Explain yourself," Snape demanded, his fists tight with anger.

Hermione shifted her weight awkwardly to the other foot, eyes cast down to the carpet. "I did it this summer, before term started. I knew they were in danger, you see, and because of my relationship with Harry - well, you know what Voldemort -"

"Do not speak his name in my presence, girl."

"Er, sorry. You know what _he'd_ have done if he found them, so -"

"That doesn't explain why you decided it was a good idea to erase their memories, Miss Granger. Surely you must have realized that sending them away would suffice."

Hermione shook her head sadly. "I couldn't - I couldn't risk it. If Vol - if You-Know-Who had tracked them down, he could torture them for information and - and I couldn't allow that to happen."

Snape was watching her with utter astonishment, and Draco had to quite agree. He'd seen the reasoning clearly enough when she explained it to him before, but she hadn't said _this,_ she hadn't said that the war was more important than her parents' memories of their own daughter. Their protection was one thing but… but erasing herself from their lives because of Harry Potter? That was… well. It was ruthless.

"You are," Snape said, all the indifference vacating his tone as he raised a still-shaking finger at her. "A very _foolish_ girl. I cannot fathom a worse, more ill-advised way to go about protecting them than what you have done."

"It - it wasn't _foolish,"_ she said defensively, folding her arms across her chest.

"Wasn't it? You stupid girl, did it never occur to you that you had an entire _Order_ at your disposal, a society of older and more experienced witches and wizards who might have assisted you? Albus Dumbledore was alive when you did this. Did you not think he might have offered his help?"

"It's a simple enough spell -"

" _No, it is not!"_ Snape shouted. "Ministry officials train for _years_ to cast those charms properly, and you, at seventeen -"

"Eighteen," Hermione corrected.

" _Silence!"_ he barked. Hermione flinched. "You, at eighteen, have performed an immensely complicated charm on your own parents. You will _never_ get them back, Miss Granger. I sincerely hope you are satisfied. You have made yourself an orphan."

"I will get them back," Hermione said firmly.

"You won't. That charm is not _designed_ to be reversed. If it were, do you really think that Ministry would employ it as often as they do?"

Hermione, Draco saw, was being just as stubborn as she always was, her chin tilted high even through the fresh tears that were gathering and threatening to spill over. But he could tell from her body language that she wasn't even a little bit worried that what Snape said was true, and Draco didn't understand how that could possibly be. If someone had told _him_ that a rash decision had taken his parents permanently away from him, there was no way he'd be so collected about it, and _he_ was a Slytherin. Hermione's blatant Gryffindor emotions would surely have shown on her face.

Snape turned away as though to pace the room in impatience, but he had barely moved an inch before he gave pause, then fixed Hermione again with a calculating look. A light had come on behind Snape's eyes, which flashed with a certainty that could only have been realization.

"You kept the memories," Snape stated.

Draco's head snapped over to Hermione, who glanced guiltily away from him. He knew by her inability to meet his eyes that it was the truth.

She didn't need to confirm or deny. Her silence spoke volumes.

"Very well," said Snape resignedly. "It seems as though I no longer have cause to berate you for your stupidity… they are completely out of the United Kingdom?"

"They're in New York City," Hermione said.

"Five points for lying to a teacher," Snape sneered. "And ten more for your… display with Mister Malfoy."

Hermione gaped. "That isn't fair! What about Draco? You haven't taken any points from him!"

Snape arched a brow at her. "Five more for arguing. And another thing, Miss Granger: when the war is over, if indeed Potter overcomes the Dark Lord, and if indeed I survive it, you will come directly to me before trying to insert the memories back into your parents' minds."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, professor."

"And if I do not survive it, you will not attempt to do it yourself. The extraction and obliviation is the easy part. Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"And do you realize that it is quite a painful process for your parents to endure?"

Hermione paused but again nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, professor. I researched it extensively."

"I'm sure you did." Snape sneered and, without bidding them farewell, turned and left, his cloak billowing dramatically in the way only Professor Snape's could do.

Once the portrait had shut behind him, Draco faced her; seeing his expression, Hermione took a step back.

.

* * *

 _._

 _Show me what Theodore Nott is doing in the Room of Requirement._

 _Show me what Theodore Nott is doing in the Room of Requirement._

 _Show me what Theodore Nott is doing in the Room of Requirement._

Harry popped his eyes back open and gave a frustrated shout when he was greeted, for the fourteenth time, with nothing but a blank stretch of wall.

"Dammit!" he swore.

"Maybe he's still in there, mate," Ron said, scrubbing the exhaustion from his eyes. They'd been there for an hour-and-a-half now.

"I know what I saw, Ron," Harry replied hotly.

"Oi," said Ron, holding his hands level with his shoulders. "I'm not saying you haven't. Maybe he's already made it back to the castle, or maybe it was a delayed reaction. How d'you know you get those visions at the same time they happen?"

"Because I _know,_ Ron!" Harry yelled, his ire not abated in the least.

"Alright, fine," said Ron. "Try another room, then. Go on."

Harry paused.

 _I need a place to practice with Dumbledore's Army._

 _I need a place to practice with Dumbledore's Army._

 _I need a place to practice with Dumbledore's Army._

Harry opened his eyes and watched as the stone wall began to magically shift, forming a large, ornate-looking door, the very same one which he remembered. But in this case, it was no encouragement.

"Dammit," Harry swore again, fighting the insane, irrational urge to kick it.

"There you have it," said Ron with finality. "The Room isn't going to tell us what Nott's getting up to in there."

Harry spun to face him. "We can't just _give up_ on it, Ron."

"I'm not saying we should. But we're going to have to find a different way to go about it -"

Ron fell silent, tilting his head toward the opening of the corridor. Harry heard it, too. Steps. Someone was coming.

Scooping the Invisibility Cloak from the floor, Harry threw it around both of their bodies just in time for Theodore Nott to round the corner, hurrying for the exact place they were now standing. The two boys backed away in unison, waiting with bated breath while Nott came closer - but as he approached the spot that was meant to be empty wall, he stopped dead in his tracks. There wasn't supposed to already be a door there.

Nott looked around briefly and, just as quickly as he had come, pivoted to make a quick escape.

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance that was somewhere between disappointment and relief: they hadn't been able to sneak behind him into the room, but they also hadn't been caught spying.

When Harry was sure that Nott had gone, he whispered. "We need to see Hermione."

"I'm not going there," Ron whispered back.

"Don't be thick, Ron, she'll want to know. She needs to know."

"Why? So she can tell you off for letting Voldemort into your mind? Are you mad?"

"You just don't want to go because Malfoy bested you in that duel today."

"That isn't the only reason!" Ron whispered, affronted. "She's being a right terror these days. Don't tell me you haven't noticed."

"You haven't been any nicer to her."

"Why should I? She's the one who -"

"This is more important than your little spat."

"Fine," Ron grumbled, checking his watch. "But can it wait 'til tomorrow? It's nearly two."

"No, it _can't_ wait -"

"Come off it, Harry. If Snape and Nott are already back in the castle, it's not as if anything new's gonna happen tonight."

" _Fine._ But we're going to see her tomorrow."

"Fine."

.

* * *

.

"Draco, I -"

"Don't Hermione. Don't try to pretend that you haven't been keeping secrets from me on purpose," he accused, staring at her across the yards that separated them.

"That isn't - Oh, Draco, I wasn't trying to keep secrets on purpose, it's only -"

"Only what, Hermione? Only you don't trust me to know anything about you?"

"No!" she said, wild curls flying as she shook her head. "Of course, I trust you, Draco. That isn't what I mean, you know it isn't."

Draco snorted. "And just how would I know that, Granger? It isn't as though you've _told_ me as much. As far as I can tell, you haven't told me a fucking thing."

Hermione winced, and Draco felt just slightly ashamed. It had been a long time since he'd sworn _at_ her and not just around her. They'd gone weeks without any sort of row between them. Yes, Draco might have been wrong. He could have been completely, totally wrong about plenty of things, but this, he felt certain, was betrayal on some level.

"Don't be angry," she soothed, but it was difficult to be reassuring when she couldn't keep her own voice from wavering. "I just don't want anything to happen to them, not after how hard I've tried to keep them safe!"

"Are you even listening to yourself, right now? How can you say that you trust me when it is _quite obvious_ that you thought I'd somehow manage to muck it all up for you? What would have been the harm in telling me about it?"

"I -"

"Unless, of course, you thought that if you told me, I'd betray them," he said coldly.

"I haven't told Harry and Ron, either, Draco!" she said, holding both hands in front of her, imploring him to understand. "No one knew that I'd kept the memories. They know that I Obliviated them, but that's all!"

Draco rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "I see. So, basically, you don't tell anyone about anything, because you think we're all too stupid or too careless to keep it to ourselves. Perfect."

" _No!"_ she said anxiously. "But what would have been the _point,_ Draco?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said, making a show of pretending to consider the question before he answered it. "Maybe showing the people that _care_ about you, the ones who are supposed to be _close_ to you, that you actually give two fucks about what they think?"

"Don't be ridiculous," she said. "Of course I care what you think."

"Obviously," he replied bitingly. "How stupid of me. I should have known that you were only keeping secrets because they didn't come up in casual conversation."

Hermione's hands dropped to plant against her waist. "I don't understand why you're so upset about this. It's to do with _my_ parents, and they're only Muggles, after all. Aren't they?"

" _Don't_ start that, Hermione."

"Don't start what?" she asked, eyeing him with acute perception.

"Don't -"

He spun away from her, the only action he could take which might control his temper.

He thought of _Night,_ the book he'd been reading whenever he got a chance to be completely alone, which wasn't often. Draco was only half-way through it, but already the words had cut him to the quick and shaken his core, its ideas too profound and the history too pertinent. It was a Muggle conflict, and yet it was so relevant to the war being currently waged in the Wizarding World that Draco found it impossible to dismiss. And the pictures. The pictures were the worst, haunting his nightmares with images of emaciated people, tortured people; desolate, forgotten people who'd done nothing wrong except be who they were. Jews.

Muggles. Jews. Mudbloods.

What was the difference in an age where witches and wizards were persecuted for daring to be magical? As if they'd had a choice in the matter, as if the Jewish people had a choice in the matter so many years ago.

Slowly, Draco faced her again, brandishing a threatening finger. "Don't start implying that I don't give a fuck about them just because they're Muggles."

"You never cared before!" she said shrilly, and Draco had to wonder whether she was _trying_ to hurt him or if these were all her latent fears, bubbling up and over because of the stress of situation itself.

"For fuck's _sake,_ Hermione!" Draco yelled, taking a step forward. "They're your _parents,_ and you really think I don't care what happens to them?"

"It isn't enough!" she returned, not backing away from him as he advanced ever nearer. "It isn't enough for you to only care about them because you've got _me,_ Draco!"

"It isn't enough?" he repeated crossly. "It isn't enough for you that I've changed, it isn't enough that maybe you've had a permanent effect on the way I view things?"

"No! It isn't enough that you think _I'm_ special because - because you care for me. It isn't enough that you want my parents to be okay if they're the _only_ Muggles that matter to you! They should _all_ matter to you, no matter who they are, because they're _people too!_ All the Muggleborn kids that died tonight should _matter_ to you, but they don't, do they? Because they're not to do with me. I can't be the only Muggleborn that matters in your world."

Draco shook his head, running a hand through his hair; he was ready to tear it out at this point. Why were women so bloody _difficult?_

The next time he spoke, after having taken several calming breaths, it was with great deliberation, enunciating every word. "You are not the only Muggleborn I care about. Your parents are not the only Muggles I care about. For fuck's sake, Hermione - I mean, literally, how can you even accuse me of that, after _everything_ I have done to show you that things are different now? None of those people - none of those children deserved to die just for being what they are." He cringed. "What they _were."_

He could see the tears shining in her eyes, but for once, Draco didn't feel bad about being the one to cause them. She needed to know, she needed to _understand_ that he wasn't the same bigoted git he'd been to her for so many years - and if she hadn't figured it out by now, what did it say about their relationship?

Wasn't this more than some random fling? Weren't they working on something that would hopefully last through the war, something that they could hold onto if the two of them did, in fact, survive?

Or were they just clinging to each other during a time so wretched and plagued by death that there were few other options to consider?

Hermione, standing only a few a feet away from him now, was wearing an expression so open and hopeful that it was almost painful to see. She wanted to believe him, he could tell - but couldn't. As though her better judgement was advising her against such perils.

"How long is it going to take you to trust me, Hermione?"

The tears she'd been trying so desperately to hold back finally fell, running down the graceful curve of her cheek. But she did not speak.

"Weren't you the one who said we couldn't go on like this, with me 'shutting you out' just because I was afraid of what I felt? Weren't you the one who said I had to _try,_ Hermione?"

Still, nothing. Her bottom lip trembled.

"Weren't you?" he pressed.

"I -" Hermione closed her eyes, and more tears escaped the confines of her lashes. "I sent them to Brisbane."

Whatever Draco had expected her to say in response, it wasn't that.

"Australia?" he asked, somewhat confused.

"Oh, come on," she sniffed, brushing the wetness from her cheeks. "You knew I was lying when I told you I'd sent them to America."

"Yes." Draco nodded, watching her. "That's true."

"I don't know, I just thought." More sniffing. "I just thought they'd enjoy Australia the most. They'd always talked about vacationing there when they could save up enough money for it, and - well the culture's somewhat similar to Britain. I chose Brisbane because it's the capital of Queensland, and it's such a large city… it was the closest thing to London I could think of."

Draco waited. It was quite apparent that she wasn't finished, and indeed, her next move was to cross over to the coffee table, where her beaded bag lay unassumingly on its surface. Opening it, Hermione pointed her wand.

" _Accio vial of memories."_

Draco had seen her summon things from that bag any number of times, but never had it taken so long for the object to surface. It must have been buried very deeply, and the symbology of that was something that Draco didn't want to examine too closely. At last, a thin, stoppered vial sailed into her waiting hand, and he saw that it was not unlike the one that Scrimgeour had presented Draco with during the reading of Dumbledore's will. It was sealed with a reddish-brown colored wax, though it wasn't quite as large: Draco guessed that an Undetectable Extension Charm had been placed on _it_ as well, for surely something so tiny was insufficient for storing a lifetime's worth of memories.

Hermione held the vial up so that he could see it properly. "I keep it at the bottom of my bag - it's warded, of course. It can't be opened by anyone other than me but -" Her voice cracked. "- but the glass can be broken and the memories lost. I did that on purpose too, just in case - well, you know... Just in case."

Dropping the bag onto the coffee table, Hermione approached Draco again, reaching for his hand. He allowed her to take it, allowed her to press the vial into it as she looked up at him.

"And besides," she went on. "If I die, it'll just be easier for them. It'll be easier to never know they had a daughter than to have to mourn her death - I… I wanted to spare them that, at least, and of course, I never told them what was really happening with Voldemort. They knew a few things, here and there, but never that there was a stark-raving mad despot trying to kill my best friend, and by extension, me, only because I'm close to him.

"I didn't know that there was a way to keep someone's memories and _Obliviate_ them at the same time, not until I'd done a fair bit of research on it. But… I've done it properly, I think, and maybe, after this is over, I can get them back."

Draco almost had no words, and for a long moment, could only stare speechlessly at her, absorbing the desperation in her features where it warred with the obstinacy he so admired her for.

"Well?" she said expectantly.

"Well, what?" he asked and found that his mouth was dry. The words had come out raspier than they'd sounded in his head and Draco cursed himself for it. Ruddy emotions.

Hermione stomped her foot. _"Say something!"_

Draco pocketed the vial of memories, and with no further apprehension, took hold of her shoulders. His lips descended on hers with none of his usual possessiveness, none of the aggression that was common when he merely lusted for her. He kissed her softly and soundly, and when he finally pulled away, he rested his hands on either side of her face, looking down into her eyes as his thumb ran across the tears that still glimmered on the porcelain skin of her cheeks.

The fact was that Draco didn't _know_ what to say. He only knew that Hermione was hurting, that she missed her parents, that she suffered without saying a thing to anyone about it. That she was fighting a war of her own, quite apart from the one everyone else was fighting, and that if there was anything that Draco absolutely _had_ to do, it was prove to her that she wasn't alone.

"Thank you for telling me. We'll get them back. We'll do whatever we can to get them back. I promise."

"Oh, Draco," she breathed, and as the tears came again, frantic hands found his collar. Pulling him closer, she claimed his lips for her own.

.

* * *

 _ **Night**_

* * *

 _But two days after my operation, rumors swept through the camp that the battlefront had suddenly drawn nearer. The Red Army was racing toward Buna: it was only a matter of hours._

 _We were quite used to this kind of rumor. It wasn't the first time that false prophets announced to us: peace-in-the-world, the-Red-Cross-negotiating-our-liberations, or other fables… And often we would believe them… it was like an injection of morphine._

 _Only this time, these prophecies seemed more founded. During the last nights, we had heard the cannons in the distance._

 _My faceless neighbor spoke up:_

 _"Don't be deluded. Hitler has made it clear that he will annihilate all Jews before the clock strikes twelve."_

 _I exploded:_

 _"What do you care what he said? Would you want us to consider him a prophet?"_

 _His cold eyes stared at me. At last, he said wearily:_

 _"I have more faith in Hitler than in anyone else. He alone has kept his promises, all his promises, to the Jewish people."_

* * *

.

 **A/n: Mentions go to snakebitch, thistlefinch, and booklifeforlife.**

 **So, guys, this is the very last chapter of the published material. Yayyy! Thank you all so much for sticking with me through the repost. I work doubles every day this week, but I'll try to have the new chapter out by Friday.**


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